Homecoming
by ruth baulding
Summary: A post-Jabiim H/C set in the Legacy AU. This one is coruscantbookshelf's fault.
1. Chapter 1

**Homecoming**

* * *

I.

He sets the ship down, a gossamer touch upon the Temple's undisturbed pool, and instantly feels the inviolate plenum shudder beneath him, inky ripples spreading from _him,_ from the black knot in his solar plexus, across the hushed tympanum of _their_ expectation.

The whole _kriffing_ lot of them are waiting. Wondering.

Anakin balls his fists into his eyes, as though the eruption of crimson and gold fireworks behind his lids will somehow obscure _their_ omnipresent, penetrating regard. His shields are _useless,_ crumbled to ruin. They know it. He knows it. He is unworthy to be a Jedi – so they say. So they think.

Maybe it's true.

He doesn't _care._ He shouts it aloud, a hoarse imprecation directed at the Force itself, and he _slams_ the cockpit doors apart, storming back through the ship's bowels, letting its misery swallow him, envelop him in a sickly embrace. Here, in the aft compartment – lightless to spare its occupant undue stress, cycled air _hot_ and musty because the filters were past optimum to start with – he is spared the Force's mockery, the subliminal itch of _other_ Jedi's curiosity. Raw, concrete fact rivets his whole attention to the present moment.

"Master," he chokes out. "We're home."

"I know."

At least Obi-Wan is speaking. But there is a disturbing undertow of _desperation_ in that parched voice, a sign of human weakness seldom if ever revealed , at least in present company.

"Look, I'll – "

His efforts to maybe – what? Help the Jedi master sit up? – are rebuffed with a grunt and a pressure of shaking fingers around his wrist. "No… let the healers." A short pause, in which wounded feelings slop messily over the rim of Anakin's control. Then, as an afterthought, an apologetic side note: "You've done enough."

It wasn't meant to hurt. It was intended to reassure. But it _burns,_ all the way down to his marrow. Because the Force is mocking him again. It is true, bitterly ironically true, that he has done enough. He has wrought this disaster with his own hands, through omission and inattention and neglect and … _pride._ He straightens, chastised by the gentle words, and licks his cracking lips. He also is exhausted and worn thin, and desperate.

He is supposed to turn to the Force for succor at times like this.

He snorts _. E'chuta._ The kriffing Force let this happen. Light and Dark – it cares only for itself. Its so-called servants are just _collateral_ damage in a sempiternal war, a clash of totalities beyond mortal reckoning or control.

He wipes moisture from his face with his flesh hand. _You will bring balance._

But how? He doesn't trust the Force. Obi-Wan does… and look what it did for him.

There are no obscenities vile enough. He clenches his fist and something shorts out behind the bulkhead.

" _Anakin,"_ his ailing friend pleads. It _is_ a plea, too, a tremulous and pained supplication. Stop. The barest _penumbra_ of dark emotion, and Obi-Wan is panting and sick. Anakin can hear his breath coming short, each exhalation too wet, too labored. He sets his jaw. Now is not the time. Now he should –

The access hatch wrenches open, hydro-pistons wheezing in protest against the near-violent use of the Force. Harsh light floods in; Anakin squints and ducks his head, instinctively avoiding that accusatory glare. The tall, silver-maned figure that charges in – flows in, two long strides and a sweep of cloak – spares him a brush with one hand, the most fleeting of salutations, before it sinks down upon one knee beside the inset bunk.

"Master," Anakin rasps.

"Master," Obi-Wan breathes.

Qui-Gon seems only to hear the latter. "Who?" he asks.

"Ventress," Anakin supplies.

"… don't know," Obi-Wan whispers. "… _shadow._ " An unwonted edge of frustration sharpens his tone, lending strength to the halting declaration.

"He's delirious," the man's former padawan insists. "It was _Ventress,_ that pus-scabbed _pu'utala."_

The elder – _their_ master, _both_ of theirs – raises brows at him over one powerful shoulder. Grey eyes hint at compassion but the two fingers held up in a clear sign of command – _be quiet-_ bespeak impatience. Anakin falls silent, smarting inwardly. The Force has _closed,_ wrapped itself in a golden cocoon about the other two. He is on the outside looking in, the messenger boy dismissed, the liveryman standing voiceless in the corner, the _extraneous_ one.

Qui-Gon used to think he was the Force's Chosen One – but it is abundantly clear who is the Jedi master's personal favorite. Anakin will _never_ live up to Qui-Gon's standards, because he can never attain Obi-Wan's lofty pinnacle of favor. He can never please his master, he can never please his grandmaster… only the Force has deigned to find him _special -_ and even that benison is but a dubious title, a nebulous weight of responsibility.

He will bring balance. Yeah, right.

Other footfalls are sounding on the deck outside – a parade of anxious inquirers, passionless Jedi awash with relief, concern, jubilation, fear.

He scowls and shoulders his way out and down the hatch, striding purposefully across the hangar bay, diagonally across the docking berths, avoiding the influx of newcomers.

" _Skywalker!"_ Mace Windu's baritone rings out, authoritative enough to bring a lesser man up short in his tracks.

Anakin merely holds up a hand, acknowledging and refusing the summons in one curt gesture, and stalks implacably onward. He is equal to _anyone_ in this Temple. And none of them truly care about him, anyway. Windu especially does not trust him – he is only tolerated by the Council because he is sheltered beneath Obi-Wan's aegis. And because they all hope he will prove a good investment, the boy who fulfillied his destiny.

The one who will bring balance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Homecoming**

* * *

II.

Anakin's departure is the voiding of a bright star; his presence solar, at once scorching and life-giving, a thing sometimes intolerable in its intensity but bitterly missed in absence. The abrupt snuffing of this luminary - physical distance less meaningful than the sudden opacity of mental shields – hits him like a physical blow.

He's used to that by now, but an undignified noise escapes him anyway. He clenches his teeth lest they chatter and lies shuddering.

He had been _clinging_ to Anakin's mere presence, his beacon-torch in the Force, like a lifeline. Deprived of this steady anchor, he is sent tumbling into panic. Again. The body, the emotions, the over-abused nervous system: gross matter is such a traitor, so weak. And a Jedi is to be a vessel of Light, a thing of humble clay cherishing liquid radiance within - but his vessel is more than a little smashed and shattered at the moment.

And of course Qui-Gon is _right here,_ privy to his humiliation.

Ah well, he is well accustomed to that too.

"Breathe," the Jedi master reminds him, as though he were a crecheling.

Breathe, breathe. The pulse and tide of life finds him and rises, falls… a bit shakily, uneven. But still. And then there are _many_ people near and he is not at all sure he can withstand their combined scrutiny, so many probing tendrils extended in the Force toward him, every tentative mental touch a needle pricking deep into old bruises, a promise of more pain to come.

He is hyperventilating.

" _Breathe._ " Qui-Gon's voice is pitched to a mellow bass tone, the smoothness of a river rock tumbled by eternal waters. It alone does not _chafe_ against his raw spirit. "..Slowly." The last admonition has a hint of humor behind it.

Obi-Wan appreciates that. Humor might save him, even if he cannot find his still center.

Surely the Force resides in laughter as much as silence?

There is a susurration of voices – Qui-Gon's, others whom he would recognize if the last months had not _gouged_ every familiarity from his psyche, scrawled their own grotesque guild-marks across his soul – and then a merciful blanketing , a fog descending in cool waves, contracting his horizons to a comfortable proximity.

One other person appears in this protected circle, bringing with her a salt-tang scent, a faint hint of crisp linen and disinfectant cleansers. Like the ocean, she merely washes up upon his shores, not treading heavily, not prying and demanding. Webbed hands hover without touching, reading without pressing too closely against the grisly text of recent events. Eventually he stops shaking, and trusts himself to speak.

"Bant."

It is too dim to make out her features, even if his vision were not bleary. But the Mon Cal's voice is a welcome sound, gentle – burbling, almost – a memory not obscured by agony. Bant is rooted in his very childhood, in a bedrock foundation laid before the galaxy went to the hells.

She also has the courtesy – the good sense – to skip all sentimental preliminaries. "Obi… may I see? I need to see."

And there it is. A healer's touch is not _…_ well. It is _intrusive._ It reveals, it _strips._

Is it strictly necessary for _anyone_ to know what he has suffered, besides himself?

Panic cascades through his bloodstream again, sharp and cold, blossoming from the solar plexus and spreading like swift venom. His adrenals must be _shot._

Understatement.

"Obi, if you can _laugh_ then you can let me _see,"_ Bant insists, chiding in her own irresistible way.

If he _agrees,_ then it is not the same as ….

It is not like…..

" _Blast it."_ He should not be so _wrecked._ A Jedi draws his strength from the Force. Fear is a path to suffering.

And vice versa, it would appear. He is better than this. He should be, anyway. He has a plethora of titles and honors as testimonial to his _worthiness._

"Obi," Bant croons.

Pathetic. _Oh look…_ _I am a pathetic life form._

Qui-Gon sighs in impatience, a gust of breath dispersing his dark thought like a cloud of dust.

Fine. _Fine._ This is _not_ a good idea, and his every instinct is screaming _no –_ pounding it out in rhythm with his ratcheting pulse – no no no no no no no – but he holds up his palms to meet Bant's smooth-hard, silky-rough ones, hand to hand, the Force opening between them, completing a primal circuit, invisible and inexorable, binding all things together, welding two minds together in one shared experience –

It sears through Bant like fleet lightning. She cries out; Qui-Gon is behind her, bracing her, grounding the eviscerating fire in some limitless earth known only to him. He has anticipated the need, perhaps .

There are some things the Jedi Master keep s to himself, even now. Or maybe he discusses the mysteries with old Yoda.. Or perhaps not. Obi-Wan is not sure, and has not found the right moment to ask his former mentor what _exactly_ he learned at the feet of the Whills.

"Oh, Obi-Wan," Bant gasps, breaking the connection.

She can hardly be blamed.

He stares at the ceiling, or where he thinks it must be, veiled in the gloom overhead. "You had to ask."

Bant's next words are an urgent murmur, addressed to Qui-Gon. "Master Mundi brought the clone trooper – Captain Alpha I think his name is – earler. He's… nowhere near… I –"

The reply is even softer, and its cadence rises and falls with the listener's breath, weaving in and out of hearing, words breaking and floating, foamlike, upon the swirling current. "… not be intimidated, Bant…. Compassion…. Master Che's skill…. Help now…. Me informed … the Council…. Agreed?"

Obi-Wan frowns. He is missing something here, a vital thread of coherence. But he barely has the energy to care.

And then the cool and calming mists draw closer… a cradle woven of forgetfulness and the Force's sweet oblivion, a balm to ease every care, even the burden of further contemplation.

Pride would ordinarily demand that he resist… but he is well beyond pride.

The last thing he registers is Qui-Gon 's voice. "Quiet. Rest. .. Breathe."


	3. Chapter 3

**Homecoming**

* * *

III.

Qui-Gon has spent _innumerable_ hours waiting in the healers' ward, pacing the stifling confines of its spacious lobby, of its enclosed meditation garden, of its labyrinthine inner corridors. A Jedi's life is fraught with peril, with narrow escapes, with minor injuries sustained in martial training, with fevers and maladies contracted on strange worlds, with every manner of stress and strain a living being can endure.

They walk on the edge, most of them. The Knights in the field most of all. And Obi-Wan… well, he has always been a magnet for trouble.

A dual phase core supercompression electromagnet.

He held the record for sheer audacious flirtation with death, until Anakin arrived to usurp his title. And now the two of them – the boy at last Knighted, a fledgling set free to soar among the clouds of his own ambition – are busily weaving a _legend_ for themselves, an epic in which they dart, like fleet avians, between the ominous pillars and crags of fabulous deed, passing through the needle's eye between failure and disaster with unerring, unconscious verve, their synchrony a trilling flourish upon the feat.

They were meant to be together. There has not been a more perfectly yoked mission team since… ever.

Which is odd, evidence of the Force's whimsical humor, for the apprenticeship was not _easy._

Nothing about Obi-Wan is easy. Teaching him was not easy. Communicating with him is never a facile undertaking. Convincing him when he does not wish to be convinced is a herculean task. Meeting his expectations is near impossible, and he holds himself to a standard doubly rigorous. Beating him in a simple 'saber contest _used_ to be simple, but of late it seems a futile aim. It would seem that no being could ever attain the privilege of _friendship_ with the man, and yet – paradox of paradoxes: many have. Without effort, almost. They were admitted into the inner sanctum by an act of generous surrender.

Qui-Gon cannot count them even on two hands. In the Order alone, there are Garen Muln and Bant Eerin and Reeft, Troon Palo and Ben To Li, himself and perhaps Mace and Yoda and Ki Adi, and there was Feld Spruu… and there was Siri Tachi. And others. Many others. And Anakin – Obi-Wan did not _want_ Anakin at all. But he took the boy upon himself at some subtle prompting of the Force, without question, and the result is a fraternity deeper than any blood bond. They bicker like brothers, they play like brothers, they drive each other to distraction, each would die for the other.

It is a dangerous thing, like love. It is love. It could tear either or both of them apart, if the precarious center does not hold.

Destiny is a ruthless shaper of souls.

"Master Jinn?"

He is chivvied from his reflections by a young voice, a hesitant but determined presence lingering respectfully in the threshold – too bold to be deterred, too polite to venture further upon his privacy without permission.

Force help him, he had forgotten that _news_ would have traveled like wildfire throughout the Temple.

"Who is with you?" he inquires, peering into the dim corridor beyond.

Sloppily erected mental shields collapse in a huff of frustration, revealing the second individual's identity immediately. Qui-Gon smiles, wanly.

"Ahsoka. Stop lurking in the shadows and ask what it is you've come to find out."

The Togruta padawan steps forward, a little too much confident sashay in her gait, a tad too much bravado in her projected aura. She is muted – a bit- by the Temple standard tunics into which the redoubtable Powers That Be must have wrestled her by an act of will generously supplemented with advanced grappling techniques. But she retains enough native spark to raise her small chin and make her demand, placing both slender hands on the younger boy's shoulders as though calling him a mute witness to her plea.

"Skyguy is back," she states. "I can feel him and he's upset. Did he… I mean, is….? I mean… " Brash white stripes accentuate her brows as they quirk together painfully. "Is General Kenobi…. Here?"

Qui-Gon's eyes crinkle slightly at the slip. _Skyguy_ , is it?

"Yes," he answers, in a tone which forbids further prurience.

"I haven't seen my master in.. months," the Togruta adds, plaintively, the brave front melting into insecurity. "Do you think… do you know if…?"

He leans back. Ah, yes. "He will find you when he is ready, Padawan. It has been a difficult mission for him. You should have patience. Master Skywalker, " – a slight emphasis on the proper name – " will need your compassion, as much as you require his guidance."

She gnaws upon her lower lip, extravagant lashes veiling striking blue eyes. "Yes, Master."

He fixes her with a stern look. Ahsoka requires a _firm_ hand, at all times. "And I also sense that you are shirking other duties to be here. Am I right?"

She has the good grace to blush, rich skin deepening to a rust-stained ochre. A nod, stubbed montrals bobbing with the motion. "Yes, Master… I'm sorry."

He gently inclines his head, softening the dismissal but not reneging it. "Go on, then."

She hesitates fractionally, curious gaze resting upon her companion. To make his wishes clear, Qui-Gon appends a second command. "Tachiro. Come here – we will speak for a moment."

Ahsoka retreats, the swing of her hips bespeaking petulance, even beneath the concealing layers of cloth. He shakes his head, wondering not for the first time how fire can be expected to tame fire, Anakin to refine and moderate this his spitfire apprentice – whom he has abandoned for two long months in a time of uncertain war – and then banishes the idle thought. There are rare occasions when even he will defer to old Yoda's inscrutable wisdom. This must simply be one of that very small number.

"Master?"

He pats the bench beside him. His young companion sits, tucked all the way against the back so that his legs may swing free, toes barely brushing the smooth floor. _Swish, swish,_ their double pendulum measures the passing seconds. At eleven, the youngling has not yet hit his expected growth spurt. All the same, Qui-Gon rather expects that he will be of middling height, for a human.

"Did you dream?" he asks, quietly.

Tachiro's glacial blue eyes bore into the wall opposite. _Swish swish swish._ Expressive mouth set in a hard line, softly dimpled chin set at a manful jut, he merely nods.

The Unifying Force is a _scourge._

Qui-Gon sighs, and places a hand upon the boy's knee, quelling the nervous motion. Within a year and a half, by immutable custom, he must be apprenticed or sent to the Service Corps. There are good reasons Qui-Gon has devoted himself to the clans, to the younglings. He and Yoda shape the clay yet upon the wheel… hubris or wisdom, depending on one's point of view. "Why are you here?"

The child sits upon his own hands, an endearing habit that must be thoroughly expunged if he is to attain Jedi discipline. "I just want to… I don't know. " A bemused furrowing of the forehead. "Can I stay?"

"You may not. " For so many, many reasons. "Come with me. I'll walk you back to the dormitory, and we will meditate on your dream."

Defeated, the boy allows his small hand to be enveloped in a strong, calloused and tendon-knotted grip, and is led away. It is best that they both remain otherwise occupied.

It could be a long night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Homecoming**

* * *

IV.

 _Behind the shifting silver clouds, there lies a sun-drenched cerulean vault, inviolate clear dome embracing all things, penetrating them, binding them together, bringing order and purpose and harmony. And peace: knowledge, unity, service. Compassion._

 _It has gone by many names. The sages of old chose to acknowledge its ubiquity, its simplicity, by abstaining from superfluous description. To the Jedi Order, it is called the Force. It is fullness, plenitude, path and destination, meaning and syntax at once. It is Life. It is Light._

 _Except…._

 _Not always. Above that gilded arch, that perfect sphere, there lurks bottomless night. Emptiness. Totality and oblivion, consuming void. The Light fades upward ,purpling unto dusk, into the Other._

 _He was taught to call it Dark._

 _Its true name is Hate._

 _And sometimes it is seized by awful birth pangs and compacts some clotted glob of itself into a falling star, a foul rain that drops through night, through dawn and light, to the world. To any one of the ten thousand worlds. And this monster so spawned breathes and moves and raises its glinting eyes to its lord and origin far, far above, in the realm of night. And abases itself in spirit, calling the Dark master._

 _This misbegotten creature is called Sith._

 _Or it would be, in a proper cosmogeny. But such symbols and waysigns have fallen out of favor, to be replaced by more abstract concepts, by nuanced and bloodless history. It is different for those who have fought SIth hand to hand, heart to heart. For those who have looked Hate in the face, and seen in its hollow eyes the reflection of Fire, a black hole eating itself, burning itself, howling in triumphant despair._

 _Then Hate is known as Enemy. The foe and destroyer of Life, of harmony, of joy._

 _And it hates the children of Light. It desires not to merely kill them, which is nothing – there is no Death – but to grind them beneath its iron heel, to set their blood aboil with poison and alchemically transmute them into itself._

 _He wonders, sometimes, if Sith began as Jedi._

 _The history books are silent._

 _The thought makes him sick. So he knows it is the truth of primal intuition. The Order's symbol is the winged flame, the star surmounted by wings… the light aloft, unfallen…. But they any one of them could plummet into the abyss and be reborn in black fire._

 _They could be dragged down, beaten down, chained and whipped and starved and tormented. Hate has no limits, like the void above. It has no purpose, no end, no mercy, no empathy, no sanity._

 _And it gluts itself on pain like a leech, swelling obscenely as its victim is sucked dry – screaming all the while for respite, crying aloud to the frail distant Light for strength .. to overcome… to endure… or merely to die without Falling._

 _Because there is no redemption from the Pit. This is the teaching, and it has stood for a thousand generations._

"Fever, Master. And delirium."

This is Bant Eerin's voice, solid and husky with unexpressed emotion, blessedly present and particular. It sounds in concert with several pervasive deep tones, a quaternary humming as in meditative chant.

Ommmmmmmmmm.

Machines, perhaps. How odd. They too – even they – _sing._

The Force is strange and wonderful.

"Obi? Obi, are you awake? Can you hear me?"

"Mm." his reply barely breaks the surface of the haze, a sound all but stillborn.

Bant is listening, though. Her hand descends, and her touch becomes a compass point, orienting all existence into place and space, direction and distance, inward and outward. He is _here,_ in a… place. That is cool and dark. No, hot and dark. Chilled and dark. Fluctuating, but not moored in pain. It is not designed to _break_ its occupant.

Memory slithers in his belly.

Focus. Focus on Bant instead.

The Mon Cal leans in closer. He can smell sea spray, riotous white fanfare upon stone and sand. "You're all off kilter. We have to bring your fever down… the scans are showing a huge mess." Her professional tone falters. "You must let us help you. Will you ?"

That depends.

He doesn't want _anything_ _done_ to him. Ever again.

Vokara Che is loitering nearby. Circling. Predatory…? He is having trouble winnowing present from past, now from then.

Ventress circled like that, straying in and out of vision's periphery, while he was helpless to move.

Alarm spreads molten beneath his heat-pricked skin, squeezing a little more urgency from his laboring heart. He is immobile. His muscles are atrophied, nerves frayed, every cell famished for sustenance…

And they are circling. Poised, attentive, objective. Gauging, assessing.

His hands scrabble clumsily at the blankets – impeded by bandages, by stiff braces… what in hells have they _done_ to him… and the Force churns clumsily about him, a youngling fumbling his kata with the impossible strength of a lifelong adept. One of the droids skitters wildly across the room, something bleeps, _things-_ he cannot see properly – fall or are wrenched from their ordained places, the illuminators flicker.

Both healers lay hands on him, and he convulses.

It is automatic. He can almost _feel_ the phantom of…

The echo of….

The TwiLek master healer thrusts the ball of one hand hard against his sternum's base: a bright sharp explosion of warmth, obliterating the sickly rasp of panic, and a lurching cessation of thought. The Force rings with command. He is almost glad for it, limp in the aftermath, sweat trickling down his collarbone.

Their sophisticated scans cannot even _start_ to portray the mess he is in.

Vokara Che's amber eyes are gazing down upon him, liquid with apology. "I am sorry," she murmurs, lekku gently undulating. "Trauma carves its own riverbeds… to heal is to discover new channels. You must be patient and let us help."

Exhaustion is eroding his focus.

"You can rest," Bant reminds him. "You're home now. "

He is home, but not. A Jedi's only true home is the Force. He is a prisoner stretched on a rack between void and plenum, his home and endless night.

There is a quiet bustling in the background. They are going to _do things_ to him.

"Sleep," Bant recommends. "It's better that way." Milky liquid gathers in the corners of her globular eyes, a precious dew of affection.

His throat contracts, and that is when she strikes, a Force-laden command crashing over his senses and ushering him into a kind oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **V.**

His quarters are slovenly.

Big surprise there. Anakin kicks a crate of cybernetics parts to one side and surveys the detritus. He'd left in a hurry, apparently. Hadn't even closed the self-adjusting blinds, which he has recently disabled, rendering them no longer _self-_ adjusting. Maybe not his best idea. His window – a mere slit in the Temple's massive edifice – faces south-west and floods the small chamber with afternoon light, sufficient to wreck some of the delicate microcrystalline components in his scrap collection.

 _Junk Yard,_ Obi-Wan terms this place.

Obi-W an is the kind of person who would make his bed even if he was half-dead with illness. Anakin knows; he's seen him do it.

And speaking of half-dead… he gives the offending crate another hearty kick. He used to punch holes through the walls when he was in a mood like this, but it annoys the neighbors and wreaks havoc on the servos in his prosthetic. He stands, running both hands through tangled hair, grunting in acute dissatisfaction.

He doesn't really want to be cooped up in here, but he _cannot_ deal with anyone at the moment.

So he grimaces, and sets abut straightening up.

 _For you, Master._

He even makes the bed, smoothing the single thick coverlet and then tossing his filthy cloak atop it. He should probably send every stitch of clothing on his person to the furnaces. Those _chisszk-_ eater mercenaries had been _crawling_ with parasites and grime. He cannot remember his last shower, sonics or otherwise.

 _Do I stink?_

Growing up on Tatooine you got used to stink. You acclimated to it; it barely existed. He had initially found the Jedi obsession with grooming and neatness puzzling. Especially since Master Yoda seemed to honor the custom better in the breach than the observance. But whatever. So little _mattered_ at the present moment that he dropped the thought almost as soon as he had picked it up, like a child weary of some useless trinket.

 _Fark it._

He yanks off both boots, his unspeakably stiff stockings, and then everything else, chucking the rumpled wad into the chute with relief. Let the droids sort out what's salvageable. They are good at that. He prods at a few singe-burns and bruises along his ribs, his left thigh, that place where he smashed his arm into- whatever it was. Hm. Nothing broken. He saunters into his private 'fresher, carefully peeling back his prosthetic's glove and tossing that into the chute, too, for good measure.

The sonics aren't enough. He follows up with water, hot enough to make him wince. He tries to scrub the mud of Jabiim off his skin and his soul, but of course only the former comes away clean.

 _Damn Ventress to the nine hells and back again._

Back again so he can let her have what she's got coming.

He uses the air-dryer. You can't get moisture out of a robotic hand any other way. The tritanium won't oxidize, of course… but in this regard he is a stickler for details. Probably a result of Obi-Wan's malign influence.

He has a spare set of trousers around here somewhere… there. Under the toolkit. Good enough. He eyes the cluttered meditation cushion and then thinks better of it. He cannot spend another moment seeking supernal tranquility in the impersonal Force.

He kneels before his ancestor shrine instead. It is not strictly part of Jedi tradition – but it is permitted under a special dispensation for "cultural heritage." Some Jedi perpetuate the lifeways of this or that world… in a manner consonant with the Code. Blah blah blah. Qui-Gon had suggested to him that he commemorate Shmi's memory in this fashion, that he find concrete expression for what might otherwise fester into resentment, false attachment. He was too blind with grief to object.

Obi-Wan looks askance at the small, ascetical incense burner in its alcove. He does not approve, Anakin suspects, but how can he contradict his own revered mentor's advice?

 _Take that, Master._

He lights the incense and breathes out.

"I did it, Mom." He talks to her still, even though there is no _individuality_ in the Force. So they say. When he asked Master Qui-Gon what he thought about this particular doctrine, the answer had been _do not focus upon it._ Which was tantamount to a denial, Anakin decided. He was sure that Shmi could hear him, though she never replied. "I found him. We're home."

So simpe, couched in short phrases like that… no blood, no scars and open wounds, no haunted eyes or wasted limbs, no half-strangled memories howling in the Force.

"I'm going to hunt Ventress down and kill her. There's no redeeming a s not moster like her, so why let her live? It's not revenge. It's saving all the other people she is going to hurt."

When Shmi died, Obi-Wan dissuaded him from slaughtering the entire Tusken encampment in retribution. He still thinks he should have done it. To prevent future suffering. The Sand People of Tatooine were beasts, nothing more. A contagion to be exterminated.

"I know you don't like the idea, Mom." She had never countenanced violence, even in the cause of good.

The spirit of his departed mother, if she can hear him, makes no answer. A mantle of silence falls, blue smoke fluttering ribbon-like in the crisp, 'cycled air.

 _Suffering is not always bad, Ani. It can be a path to wisdom. To peace._

That was the one thing she had told him which made no sense then, or now. Suffering comes from the Dark Side. Attachment leads to fear, leads to anger, to hate, to suffering. It is inflicted upon the innocent, and upon the defenders of the innocent, upon the heroic and the good, by those who are utterly perverse, who deserve annihilation.

And that is the end of it.

He will have _peace_ when Asaaj Ventress's heart is impaled on his blazing 'saber.

He snuffs the incense between finger and thumb, and sits in the dusk, nourishing his resolution.


	6. Chapter 6

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **VI.**

When he wakes, Qui-Gon is there.

It has been many years since the Jedi master sat by his bedside, keeping vigil like a fretting thranctill hen. Time – and the war- have silvered his long mane to a glimmering white, and yet he still does not appear _old._ Oh, there are deeper smile lines bracketing his eyes, furrows stamped upon his high, sloping brow, age spots appearing here and there on his hands…. But his bearing is as supple and straight as ever, his gait as long and loping, the Force chiming about him low and deep, a steady gong note that does not waver or tremble.

It occurs to Obi-Wan that his former master is _deeper_ in the Force than he was twenty five years ago, when first they met. It should not startle him…. But he has always tacitly supposed Qui-Gon to be immutable as time itself, a thing solid and finished, like a rock amid a flowing river. In truth, he grows as much as anyone, striding down his own meandering, occasionally heretical path with all the eagerness of a first-year padawan.

Maybe that is what keeps him young. He is still apprenticed to the Living Force in his own mind, carelessly following its lead, intent only on that one bond of obedience, confident that his master knows all and will right all ills. It is a naivete which every apprentice outgrows… except this one, who has obstinately remained at the feet of his invisible, omnipresent teacher for almost …. _seventy_ years.

"You are old, Master," he croaks.

"I'm not the one languishing in bed," the tall man replies.

It would be an appalling thing to throw in any other invalid's face. Obi-Wan is cheered by the bantering insult, the irreverence paid to his suffering. What can be mocked can be defeated.

He hopes.

Conversation lulls, after this one exchange. It takes a great deal of energy to marshal thought – he is given to understand that the drugs are _salutary,_ that they augment basic tissue regeneration, that they alleviate pain, that they will promote dreamless sleep. He stirs, testing his strength and finds that his reserves remain depleted. What can they speak of that touches not at all upon Jabiim… or that place that came afterward.

"How are the younglings?" he ventures, after a significant pause in which he may or may not have dozed off.

The Force smiles, and Qui-Gon's grey eyes twinkle. "Boisterous, curious, intractable, inspired."

"No brats?"

"One or two… but nothing I can't handle."

He wants to ask more, but iron discipline forbids it. They veer away from the dangerous topic.

"And you are making them all zealous pacifists."

"Of course. Corruption of the Temple's youth is my primary mandate. My stellar early successes …" An airy wave of one hand.

" _I_ am manifestly not a pacifist. Being a General in the Grand Army and all." He skims over the dappled surface of bitterness. This is merely _a chat._ They will not plunge into deep waters.

"Ah." Qui-Gon stretches his long shanks out before him, releasing a small grunt. He _is_ old…. And there are certain old hidden wounds he masks well. But aging joints and sinews can betray one, vigorous lifelong training notwithstanding. "But I influenced you before the Council took up war-mongering."

A bubble of laughter forms, tenuous and glimmering. He cherishes it, its unfamiliar effervescent _lightness.._ a reminder of joy. He almost recalls what that means.

They are silent again. Qui-Gon is so skilled at silence that he infuses it with substance, with texture and weight. It becomes an anchor, a firm harbor in any storm. Anakin, by contrast., fills silence with brooding. It is a bad habit he has learned from his master.

The bubble pops, dissolving into the general haze. _Blast it…_ his mind is wandering, disjointed, lazily tethered to his body, like a willful pup straining at the leash. If he allows it, he will wander in spirit far, far away…. Perhaps out in the city in an air-car… he could drop in on Dex, or go look up that eccentric tea importer in the Tarkall loop… or leave Coruscant altogether, seek out a waystation, a place of _peace_ and solitude…

He starts awake, rain pounding against the prefab roof, the rumble of heavy artillery walkers and wheezing repulsors outside – Jabiim – the battleground – lightning and mud, gore churned into the filth, blinding rain and –

He starts awake _again,_ really awake this time, with Qui-Gon's hand on his arm.

"Easy," comes the quiet admonition. "Breathe."

Obi-Wan snorts. They can _souse_ him in chemicals up to his gills, but they cannot exorcise the demons.

"We'll work on those later," Qui-Gon promises. "You must regain your strength first."

Easier said than done. Nobody will leave him _alone_ in this infernal place. Absurdly, he finds himself yearning to be one of the clan younglings, curled up on his sleep mat, secure beneath watchful eyes but allowed to slumber on undisturbed…. That seductive, irresistible sleep of infancy, which harbors no traps and illusions, no treason of the soul.

He is halfway gone again when he remembers.

"…..Alpha?" he inquires, struggling to form the syllables.

"He is recovering without complication. Do not fret."

Well. Django Fett's genetically engineered DNA is stern stuff, indeed. It makes him wonder if his contempt for the Kaminoan cloners is founded upon petty jealousy… or whether intensive behavioral conditioning might have served him better in the long run than the rigors and complexities of Jedi training.

He considers the question judiciously; ingrained habit dictates that he stroke his beard while thinking – and then his fingers meet only flesh faintly stubbled, and coarsened by one or two thin ridges where a deep gash has been recently mended.

 _What?_

His unspoken outrage evokes a deep, rolling chuckle from his companion.

"Vanity, my friend, vanity."

Obi-Wan lets his hand drop. Is _nothing_ sacrosanct?

"Console yourself. After four standard _months, y_ ou looked absolutely uncivilized. Master Che was rather under the impression Anakin had mistakenly rescued an orphan Wookiee."

It is _not_ funny. None of this is funny. He scowls, ferociously.

Qui-Gon merely continues to chuckle.

The sound is soporific…. A sequestered rivulet, dancing along its stone-marbled bed, light shimmering hypnotically upon its burbling current, kaleidoscopic, _beautiful…_

It carries him away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **VII.**

Captain Alpha – predestined for greatness by his Kaminoan engineers, or else spared the ignominy of being reduced by their arts to a mere subservient – is a formidable piece of work. He is the spitting image of Jango Fett, for one thing – and remarkably hale for a man who has spent four months in captivity, culminating in _torture._

Fett was rumored to be of Mandalorian origin.

Qui-Gon mutely asks permission to enter the quiet room reserved for the clone elite officer, a courtesy the man is clearly not expecting. Though free of most genetic manipulations, including those to render him "more docile," he has been hardwired , ruthlessly conditioned to recognize a _General_ in every Jedi.

The silver haired master finds this repulsive, evidence that the cloning project itself is a vile mockery of the Order, a sneering insult to its dignity. It dismays him, profoundly, for the secret genesis of a slave army for the Republic is the most _unclean_ aspect of the war, itself a violation of the Order's every tenet.

Dooku is not wrong when he condemns them as hypocrites and the clone army as an abomination, an offense against the Force. Dooku, cold and unforgiving as he can be, is a harsh finger of conscience pointing at them all. He is the sword of justice, the instrument by which they will be brought to their knees.

It is clear to him that this whole obscene charade is a mummery scripted by the yet-unnamed Sith lord. He plays black against white, republic versus Separatists, droid against flesh-thrall. He need not dirty his hands – civil war could rip the galaxy apart, the opposing armies of _righteousness_ tearing out one another's throat while he stands on the sidelines and cackles. Neither side is blameless, neither undefiled by pride, arrogance, the stiff-necked sanctimony of blind self-confidence. Yesterday Qui-Gon received another exquisitely composed letter from his former master, inviting him to join the Separatist cause.

There is no allure in that repeated offer; he is steadfast in his resolution. Though he resonates with Dooku's clarion call for the defeat of the Sith, for the uprooting of this malignant tumor, he abhors the war and all that it implies. The future of the Order – of the _galaxy-_ is uncertain. But what hope it might claim rests within the next generation, the Temple's babes and younglings, a diminishing and precious resource. There have been no new recruits in two full years. Geonosis has stretched the Jedi too thin, changed the tide of public sentiment. The Order fights for its own survival, though few are alert enough to sense it.

All this: the profound immorality of Kamino, the deceit and cowardice of the Senators who bought the Army with money held in trust for the people of ten thousand struggling worlds, the utter depravity of war itself – none of this reflects upon the living being here before him.

"Thank you for speaking with me," he begins.

"My duty," the clone officer replies, crisply. His tones bear a slight trace of… Man'Doa? Did Fett set the language tutorial templates as well? He must have.

Qui-Gon sits, inviting his interlocutor to relax, but Alpha is clearly more comfortable standing "at ease" in the presence of a superior. "I am glad to hear that you are nearly recovered from your trials. You have served the Republic faithfully, under conditions of great duress."

The praise slides off the clone's back. His imperceptible shrug says that he was merely doing his _duty._

Perhaps a more direct approach. "General Kenobi is… an old and dear friend of mine. I wonder if you can tell me more about what happened? The knowledge will help the healers here tremendously."

A flicker of human emotion behind those limpid dark pools, more pigmented in Alpha than some of his brothers. He is much closer to an exact replication, a _denser_ variation on a dangerous original theme. "I can debrief you, sir. But my report will be limited in scope. "

Qui-Gon nods, bracing himself. Instinct tells him that _limited scope_ will be revelation enough.

"Directly pursuant to the campaign on Jabiim, where my squadron was deployed, I was taken captive by persons unknown and transported off-system. I was unable to determine the coordinates or sector of this destination, since I was kept in isolation and immediately transferred to a solitary cell." A slight hesitance. "It was not a modern structure. Subterranean. Some kind of stone fortress. "

"And General Kenobi?"

"I was not aware that he was held in the same facility, sir. Not for three months."

One hundred cycles, to be precise. Qui-Gon knows because he counted the days himself, the aching lacuna in the Force. On the hundredth day, the agony had begun with the abrupt fanfare of arcane ritual, reaching an obliterating crescendo that had rendered his daily meditation – his _seeking, reaching, hoping -_ a test of both stamina and faith. And then nothingness, until Anakin had arrived in the hangar bay, bearing with him a broken miracle.

"And where were you in that time?"

"Never moved from the cell, sir. Minimal food and water. Minimal hygienic facilities. No contact. I assumed it was a political prison, and I employed protocol mental training techniques to prepare myself for interrogation. My brothers and I – "

"Are remarkable. And when did you discover that General Kenobi was being held in the same place?"

"One day I was moved to a deeper level cell, adjacent to his. There were two or three persons I can describe and identify, sir, if you are interested."

"You met Asaaj Ventress. I am familiar with her, at least by reputation."

Alpha stirs, the soldier giving way to a deeper truth, to his _self._ "I could hear most of what she did, sir. At least I could hear the General, I mean. They set that up on purpose, I think. It's a common technique for breaking morale. I didn't… if you'll pardon the disrespect, I didn't think Jedi _could_ scream. Not like that."

Qui-Gon breathes, distancing himself from what is now in the past.

"And then?"

Alpha's eyes harden again. "They tried the same on me, a week later.. You can get the details from the med-officers here. Never asked a single question, though. Then one day they moved me into the same cell with the General. I was blindfolded, sir, so I can't provide accurate detail."

"She tormented you in front of him."

"Yessir." The clone evades his gaze, fixating on a point over his left shoulder, professionally detached.

"And?"

"The General begged on my behalf, sir. I think she was… I can't explain, sir. It's outside my realm of expertise. It was pretty bad for the General at the end there. I had the easier lot."

He may as well know the rest. "Continue."

"She returned a few times and spoke with him. I couldn't understand their exchanges, but I gathered that she wasn't getting what she wanted fast enough. Eventually she left us alone. Next thing I knew, General Kenobi was free and releasing me. I don't know how he did it, sir. Some kind of Jedi trick, if you'll excuse the liberty sir."

"The Force is a 'powerful ally."

"She'd left the General's weapon in the cell. Promised that if he asked, she would kill him with it. It was there as a reminder and a temptation, if you follow my meaning."

"I do. And that was her first mistake."

"Yessir. We fought our way out of there, appropriated a vessel and made it to neutral space before the Itaxi mercenaries boarded us. We were fortunate that General Skywalker showed up when he did. "

A subtle relaxing of posture signals that this is the end of Alpha's narrative, stark and unadorned as it is. No sordid details ornament the tale; no _hint_ of the ordeal's intensity but that one offhand observation, ringing in his ears still. Obi-Wan is a stubborn, defiant gundark at the best of times, a stoic by natural default, and a kiln-fired Knight of the Order, _strong_ in the Force. And yet …

 _I didn't know Jedi could scream like that._


	8. Chapter 8

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **VIII.**

 _It begins with living entombment. He understands his predicament the moment he regains consciousness. For a spilt second his reeling mind concludes that the explosion – on Jabiim – has literally blown him to the nine hells._

 _Then he gathers his wits and extends his senses – only to come up gagging on the Dark. It is hard to describe: the very blocks of this place are compacted of hate and sorrow. The thanatosine enclosure beneath the Temple's foundation is nothing compared to this: one is void, the other…. Putrescence._

 _The ancient Teth emperors, in the time of the Empire's decline, used to amuse themselves by executing traitors in this grotesque fashion: they tied the condemned man to a rotting corpse, face to face, hand to hand, foot to foot. And then sealed the pair in a mausoleum vault atop the skeletons of those gone before, where the living could slowly suffocate, locked in a grisly embrace with Death's spectre._

 _It is possible, he grimly reflects, that he reads too much._

 _He is contained within a dungeon cell of generous proportions. The howls of its former occupants still echo in the walls, in the dank air. He is in a fortress of the Dark. The very planet must be defiled, stained like Dathomir or the infamous Rattatak._

 _His heart skips. What if…?_

What if, what if, what if…. The biomonitor's holodisplay blips the same erratic rhythm. He focuses on that instead, the humblest of meditation anchors. If this can be called meditation, this miserable and hunching patience.

The door hisses open, and he flinches. Again.

"Sorry, Obi." Bant flicks a contrite glance over one shoulder at the offending portal, then waves the monitor aside, inadvertently robbing him of his anchor. Perhaps he should ask for a candle.

The Mon Cal fusses with the thermal sheets, his twisted blanket, not commenting on his near-fetal curl. The drugs eventually induced violent nausea; his system is too overtaxed for such burdens, even in the name of healing. And withdrawal is worse. He is not responding well to "ameliorating" measures, and his body's rejection of easy comfort will earn him recompense, he feels sure.

Every pain is rewarded with more, is that not so?

 _Fair deal, cheap at price - Not so… I lie!_

 _He maintains his sanity by remembering every place he has ever visited or been sent, every being he has ever met…until the variegated, chiaroscuro parade peters out. Time crawls to a stop, attenuates and spins out into nebulous tatters. There is no discernible night or day, no routine by which to mark the passing hours. Tainted food and water are shoved at him thorugh a slatted grille, at irregular intervals, and in quantity cruelly calculated to keep him perpetually gnawing with want. The portions diminish as he wastes away, grow more fetid and stale. He clings to life with raw animal tenacity, sleep dissolving into endless delirium, his connection to the Force a fading memory. Defiance will not help him here – every swift and angry thought is a wicked lightning rod, a flicker inviting the encroaching Dark to enter. He retreats within himself, while gross matter is hammered inexorably thin against the cold unfeeling anvil of this place._

 _All the while he knows that he will not be killed. He is merely being ..prepared. For what is yet to come._

"Obi, are you listening?"

"…No?" He manages a brief half-grin, wrenching himself back to the present moment.

Bant is caught off guard by his blunt honesty. He dimly anticipates a playful cuff, but her touch is light, almost maternal. "Gundark."

"I'm paying attention," he protests, warily gauging the irrational stirring of anxiety in his gut. Soon his skin is crawling beneath the steady pressure of Bant's hand. But he breathes, letting the fear crest and peak, then tumble breaking over him, ebbing away into mere shivering.

A small triumph.

"….and then – " Bant comes up short again. "You _are not_ paying attention!" she snaps, with enough good-humored heat in the tone to warm him. "I should shake you, you chosski."

The familiar accusation is comforting; the threat of shaking _not,_ since most his ribs are bruised or cracked. She wouldn't….? Would she? Another wave of panic rises, close on the heels of the last, and he rides this one out too.

He can tame this draigon. Perhaps.

This time Bant perceives what is transpiring and does not claim his attention until they are resting in a lull, the calm between. "I'll make it short," she teases him. "We _must_ get you into bacta. Unless you want to be scarred for life."

Unless… ha. That is deliciously ironic. Funny. Chuckling _hurts,_ jostling every insulted rib and pulling abused muscles in his back. He laughs until he weeps, and then it is difficult to stop. Breathe, breathe. Bant does not need to see this.

She pretends not to notice, bless her. "Stop that," she chides. "I'm just going to get you ready, all right?"

No – no, no, no. Because the prospect of bacta immersion suddenly hits him full force. And the third wave is a ghastly looming _wall_ , not a mere swell to be endured. It crashes over his head and pummels him until he is breathless, quivering, vertiginous in a cold and choking sea of dread.

He was nauseated to begin with; now he is on the brink of being sick. Bant is making soothing noises at him, but he is focused only upon each calming breath sucked between gritted teeth.

This is not good.

 _You are all alone. They are not looking for you; they suppose you dead, lost in action. The Dark veils this place, anyway; even if they looked for a millennium, they would never find you here. Not even Anakin will come; there is no way out._

 _You are alone. Cut off and helpless. Naked without the Light._

 _Buried alive, drowned in nothingness._

Drowned in bacta. He cannot – he _will_ not –

The exercise of his will, so long suspended, is instantly vivifying. Life – resolve- floods in his veins. " _No,_ Bant," he orders, in a voice of command, the General and theKnight and the master of an indocile padawan all at once.

She bristles, simultaneously alarmed and piqued. "Master Che agrees – "

"I said _no."_ Does she think him susceptible to intimidation? The power of choice is intoxicating. He uncurls, struggles to sit up. He is walking out of here, just as he _walked out_ of… there.

He did it. He can do it again. He yanks the insufferable intravenous lines out of his arm, spattering crimson droplets in every direction. A thrill of adrenaline follows. _Blood-drenched …._

No. Focus on the moment. He totters to the door, a blanket clutched about his shoulders. His heart throbs in protest, his lungs sear, his limbs wobble treacherously. But a Jedi draws his strength from the Force itself, and he _will not surrender._

"Obi-Wan!" Bant shouts, in undisguised exasperation.

A fettlesome, fierce part of him _dares_ her to stop him, but his Mon Cal friend is a healer, not a born fighter. And besides, she is confident in her allies. She harrumphs loudly and stalks down the corridor in the other direction, doubtless to summon reinforcements.

He lets her go, and fights his own battle forty paces the opposite way, until he attains the refuge of the ward's interior meditation garden. A skylight shaft pours _genuine,_ golden morning sunlight onto leaf and bough, hushed fountain and groomed footway. He stumbles into this miniature sanctuary, redolent of the Living Force, the mineral tang of wet earth - and drops to his knees, panting.

Escape. Sweet liberty.

Folding over into the earliest meditation pose, "infant resting," he presses his forehead to the moist ground and closes his eyes. Here, in the Force's courtyard, there is no living nightmare.

The passing moment suspends itself, and he breathes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **IX.**

He runs to her.

The Temple spires are so many accusatory fingers thrusting up at him as he flees its asphyxiating confines, blasting across the city-scape heedless of traffic law or speed restrictions.

He knows something about the Jedi, about the Order, that even they themselves do not realize. It is not from the Force alone that they draw their strength. Every one of them – the decent ones, the ones full of wisdom and goodness more than arrogance and empty platitudes – have a secret refuge, each of them a wellspring and foundation of his own. Maybe more than one. They are all rooted and nourished by one another, by a power they either veil under the euphemism "compassion," or which they pretend to disdain under the moniker "attachment."

He has another name for it, and it is _rampant_ among them. In rare cases it takes on an extreme, exquisite form, deeper and more perilous still. Everything good and beautiful is dangerous, when you think about it. The only things worth deserving of a heart's devotion are the ones that can break it.

He, Anakin, is not the only one who has a secret. He is the only one who is _honest_ about it.

Obi-Wan knows, of course, even though he pretends not to; it is impossible for either of them to hide anything from the other. Anakin used to resent that fact – when he supposed the transparency to be unilateral. But as he grew older, as his perception deepened, he realized that the loss of _privacy_ stung his former master more deeply. He has ferreted out many a buried memory, many a smothered heartache, many a camouflaged vulnerability. He knows where the man's fault lines lie.

He knows Obi-Wan's secret. Yoda does also, and Qui-Gon…. It is not classified intel, but it lies so far in the realm of Jedi taboo that it is rendered invisible to most Temple denizens. And Obi-Wan knows _his_ secret – disapproves, frets, agonizes over it – but will never betray that trust.

He cannot even express his inner doubt, his _worry,_ because that would be rank hypocrisy.

Anakin has him in a double bind. He has the upper ground.

And, so help him Force, _he_ will neither _renounce_ nor _lose_ his beloved.

He slots the aircar into the magnetic docking berth outside her private balcony and leaps over the side, brushing open the solarium windows with a wave of one hand. C3PO creaks forward, at his clumsy gait, dithering on about _mistress is not yet dressed_ and _mistress only just arrived from off-system and hasn't slept properly_ and something else that Anakin cuts short with a curt gesture. Threepio is _technically_ property of the diplomatic office, but his interpersonal skills are not quite on a par with his impressive arsenal of languages…. After the first few _incidents,_ he was given a "promotion" to Private Senatorial Aide.

He cooks and cleans and terrorizes the remainder or the automated domestic staff.

Anakin shrugs. It's not _his_ fault. He cobbled the protocol unit together out of a refurbished processor, when he was nine years old. Now: in terms of _real_ , avante garde cybernetics upgrades , take Artoo, for humble example.

Now _that_ is a work of genius.

"Anakin."

She appears upon the threshold of her boudoir, clad only in Chandrilan silk, dark tresses unbound, eyes searching his face, her own expression a blend of joy and brittle expectation.

She is waiting for bad news.

He sweeps her up in his arms, drinking in the scent of her – stale perfume, mixed with her soft-salt skin, the sweet dark cavern between the base of her neck and the cascading curls of hair…. "I found him," he announces, clasping her to his chest. Her feet dangle off the floor.

Padme returns the ferocious hug, toes wriggling as she slides down, down, just far enough to stand tip-toe, pressed against him, hands searching out his heartbeat beneath the hastily crossed tunics. "You did?" He can feel the sharp exclamation of her delight, the rip current of disbelief, the simple _happiness_ that radiates afterward. And then the cooling wind of reason, of likelihood. "Is he…. All right?"

Padme Amidala is not Jedi; she is allowed to openly, abundantly love any and every being upon whom she bestows the grace of her regard. He reminds himself of this – a private mantra – every time jealously pangs within him. Especially when she speaks of Bail Organa.. or Obi-Wan. She in entitled to _friends._ It is only logical that a woman of her talent and social standing, of her generous disposition and wide experience, will have friends who are charming, intelligent men.

It is natural that she should love them fiercely, for their nobility.

He holds her a little closer. He does not doubt his place… it is just that she is _so_ beautiful.

And he cannot stand by her side and proclaim to the galaxy at large: _this is my wife._

"Is there anything I can do?" she asks.

Is there? Not really. He hasn't the stomach to tell her much more. Not now, at least. And the Temple healers have matters well in hand, or at least so he tells himself. There is nothing she can do to help Obi-Wan, no matter how earnestly she may desire it. And he did not come here to beg favors on behalf of his friend and master.

"Hold me," he grunts, melting a little in her gentle embrace.

She steps back a pace, hands still on his arms, face tipped up to have a better look at him.

She knows him _well._ "Is it that bad?"

He nods, shoulders slumping. It is his _fault,_ too.

"Oh, _hatari…."_ Her hands slip downward, slender fingers wrapping around his calloused ones. A soft tug shepherds him along, back into the bedroom, docile to her bidding, grief and exhaustion already finding release, finding sanctuary.

She is his secret refuge, his foundation and wellspring, power and strength beyond the Force itself.

The door slides shut behind them, leaving Threepio alone in the foyer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **X.**

 _Ventress._

 _They have met before. Dueled. Bantered, even, the exchange of mocking pleasantries a discipline to contain the cold, electric tension between them within manageable proportions. She is an acolyte of the Sith arts, fully trained in lightsaber combat; it was she who gifted Anakin the livid scar across his right eye._

 _She is not to be underestimated._

 _And also: her presence means that this is no clash of ideals, no political gesture. This is personal. Disturbingly, pointedly personal. This is every bit as personal as Maul's obsession with him ever was – and he notes, in the instant this realization blossoms, that this maniacal focus is somehow made worse by Ventress' grotesque parody of femininity._

" _You're a_ prude, _Obi-Wan_ _darling ," she purrs, seizing a handful of tangled hair and yanking his head back._

" _Anyone would be in your presence, my dear."_

 _Her stained lips curve upward sardonically, a heartbeat before she strikes him across the face, hard enough to make him see stars. . And with his arms pinioned behind his back by her lackey…. Well. Small talk was never his speciality anyway._

 _She caresses his smarting cheekbone with one finger, oblong pupils narrowing appraisingly. "You're all mine, Kenobi," she murmurs, like a felix gloating over some succulent morsel._

 _She stands out against the unalleviated Dark like an inverse beacon, a black hole deeper and more malevolent than the void surrounding it. He cannot discern her intentions, beyond the obvious general idea._ _After a hundred days of solitude, of starvation and deprivation, he is perversely glad for sentient contact, for any kind of conversation. The feeling lasts approximately two and a half seconds._

 _Because Ventress does not waste time upon preliminaries._

A gust of warm air heralds the invasion of his refuge by others – several others, in point of fact. Bant has returned with reinforcements, though it took her some time to marshal them. Back turned, eyes closed, he can still readily identify each of them: Vokara Che, Bant, a youngling – probably apprentice healer – and…. Oh stars.

Master Yoda.

It is the latter revered person who approaches him, while the others loiter in the background, as witnesses or as a volunteer posse on standby lest _negotiations_ fail.

The ancient master's unshod feet and gnarled stick strew the neatly raked gravel hither and thon. A huffing grunt, and it is no longer polite to feign ignorance of his presence. With a long suffering sigh – not audible, a mere release of pent breath – Obi-Wan acknowledges his visitor with respectfully inclined head.

The old one shuffles closer, extending one hoary hand in blessing. Blunt claws brush over his hair, the Force questing, skimming featherlight beneath his shields, so fleeting and finessed that he barely registers it.

It is not the same as…

But it _is._

 _Every assault upon his physical integrity accompanied by a violation of the psyche. Dark fingers grasping, prying, ripping, shredding apart mental shields, burrowing deep deep, excavating pain, grief, fear, anything and everything…. Ventress flaying his body and soul apart with a merciless cupidity -_

 _And he still knows this is only the beginning. She has something more final and damning intended for him…._

The tiny, wizened Jedi has always been a source of profound trust for him, even when he acting in the role of ruthless taskmaster, stern inquisitor, tormenting riddle-monger. But he still flinches and shies away from the contact.

"Good to have you back, it is," Yoda murmurs, voice gravelly as ever.

"Master….." He is utterly ashamed, to be seen in such a condition by the Grand Master of the entire Order. "Forgive me; I … am not myself."

"Make, or unmake us, suffering can. Your choice, it is."

But it _wasn't_ his choice. Not….. that.

Never _that._ He briefly buries his face in his hands, as though to blot out the harrowing recollection – but the gesture is an unfortunate reflex, for it is far too similar – too close to…..

Panic clutches at his innards. He clenches both fists upon his knees, to disguise their tremor.

The old one's ears droop, and his gargoylish features soften a trifle, lips pursing into a rumpled line. "Hmmmmm,' he grumbles, throatily. He stirs his gimer stick in the gravel pensively. "Tell Council of this, you must. When ready you are."

Oh, Force. It has not yet struck him that he must _report_ upon his experience. The prospect is … unwelcome. But it is no mere otiose formality. They _must_ know… what he has seen. And failed to see. What the Sith are willing to do, to _inflict…._

The others – the healers' coterie lurking near the garden entrance – stir impatiently.

Obi-wan snorts. "They've brought you here to _convince_ me," he observes, dryly.

"Neglecting other duties, I am, for present need."

Ha. A _guilt trip,_ as Anakin would call that, is a pathetic negotiating tactic.

Yoda's gimlet eyes narrow. "Play your game, I will not. Injured badly, you are. Heal you _must."_ The stick scribes a testy circle in midair, encompassing the garden, the observers, himself, the entire situation in one dismissive arc. " _Foolish,_ this is."

Having been pushed well past his limits, he finds that many other limitations and boundaries have also been superseded. Respect due to rank is one thing, bullying another. He raises his hoarse voice, enough to be heard by the hopeful medical staff. "I will _not_ be _compelled,_ nor will I _submit_ ."

 _The Dark rages in his veins, in his heart, consuming fire seeking ownership, twisting and breaking the blackened girders of his certainties. Submit, submit, submit…._

"Master!" Vokara Che implores, sharply.

"Foolish!" Yoda snaps at him. His mien is terrible, troll-like, indignant.

They will _stick_ things on him, into his veins. They will strip him and probably – he has to admit it is reasonable – sedate him, and _submerge_ him in viscous, reeking broth, and – worst of all, because the respirator is indispensible – they will _cover his face._

He stifles the urge to retch.

The Grand Master has come to the edge of his tolerance. He straightens, imperious and unrelenting. "Agree, I do."

What?

Somewhere behind him, the senior healer makes a noise of disbelief.

"Submit nor be compelled, will you, Obi-Wan. Go of your own free choice you will."

The discussion – if there ever was one – is over. The ancient Jedi snuffles his irritation away into the Force, and squints at his interlocutor. "Come to me when finished here, you are. Drink _silpa_ tea, we shall. And talk. Hm."

The dismissal is… gentle. Almost humorous. Yoda stumps away, nodding curtly at Bant and the others as he passes. It is unclear who the victor of this squirmish may be; they all remain immobile, poised upon the brink of the garden's silence, the frivoling of the streamlet and the continuous, silent exhalation of the plants.

 _Blast it all to oblivion._

"Bant…?"

She hurries forward, struggling to help him get to his feet. She wraps the blanket about his shoulders more securely.

"You are a _stupid gundark,_ Obi," she whispers fiercely in his ear.

He leans heavily on her support, weaving a little but keeping his chin high. He meets the Twi'Lek healer's amber eyes, gaze steady. "Master Che."

She nods, indulging his _need_ for this to be voluntary, to walk _into_ it of his own accord and with Jedi dignity.

"I believe I require bacta."

Bant's precautionary hold on his arm tightens. Vokara Che's hard-limned Force aura yields slightly, a certain empathy kindling behind her stern regard. "Come this way. I have everything prepared."

He limps resolutely toward his doom, with Bant by his side.


	11. Chapter 11

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XI.**

Siku is a cumbersome sleeper; the youngling's softly furred limbs dangle dead-weight in Qui-Gon's arms, his head lolling heavily against the Jedi master's shoulder. With a small grunt, he hefts the snoring infant a bit higher against his chest and strides on through the hushed corridors.

There is at least one good reason that the task of comforting this colicky denizen of the crèche falls to his lot – and it has nothing to do with his attunement to the Living Force, or his reputation for imperturbable patience. It comes down to sheer size, for a fifteen-month old Wookiee is no inconsiderable burden, weighing in at roughly the same tonnage as an average human four year old. And Siku, wise already, refuses to be consoled by one of the nursery droids. He must be _walked_ to sleep on a warm shoulder, the broader the better. It is in his nature, his race-memory.

And Troon Palo _claims_ the privilege of seniority. He has a two-year advantage in this respect, and wolfishly clings to its prerogatives.

So Qui-Gon has logged countless miles of nocturnal perambulation with the fussing toddler blissfully drooling on his tabards. He is content to execute this additional duty, so incongruous with his former exploits as diplomat, warrior, seeker, sage… for the Force above all calls him to succor pathetic life forms.

And it has a _very_ wry sense of humor. At least according to Obi-Wan, who should know.

He is nearly at the end of the seventh level interior concourse, and approaching the end of his laborious circuit, when a brash trumpet note in the Force – an unconscious fanfare sloppily muted by its originator – signals to him that a visitor has come seeking his counsel.

He hesitates for a moment, then releases a long breath and resigns himself to another twenty minutes as Siku's personal porter. For this conversation really should not wait.

"Anakin," he greets the figure loitering – almost sheepishly, if that is possible – between the next structural support and the wall alcove adjacent.

The young Jedi looks tousled, and his bloodshot eyes, evidence of little or no sleep, retain yet that darkling flame, that worrisome flicker of passion. "Master," he says, scowling at the marble floor. "I…. may we speak?"

"Of course." He is not surprised, per se. Anakin has turned him before, often and for varied reasons – but aboard the transport those few days ago, he sensed a deep disturbance, a knot of emotion bordering on resentment. "Walk with me." He will share what wisdom he can.

His padawan's padawan, though now Knighted, is still in his teaching line, grafted into his family by the Force itself.

Anakin casts one curious look at the slumbering infant but makes no comment, merely falling into step beside his elder. He is scarcely shorter than Qui-Gon himself, his stride equally ground-eating; and urgency now quickens his gait, black cloak skirling behind him, 'saber slapping jauntily against his thigh.

A bashful docent hurries past them on the right, ill-concealing her curiosity. They must present an arresting spectacle, even within the Temple's halls. He: legendary rebel, vocal dissident regarding the Order's commitment to the war, tall, crooked, silver-maned, robed in the pale cassocks and long tabards favored by elders of the community. And _Skywalker:_ son of prophecy, prodigy, genius, controversy, tall, straight, comely, haloed in unruly dark curls, clad in unremitting black, a thunderhead scudding on its own cold wind.

"How is he?" Anakin demands, abruptly.

Siku hiccups, then settles back into his dream. Qui-Gon raises his brows. "Likely wondering the same about you."

They head down shallow, sweeping stairs into the Hall of Unity in Fraternal Concord. It is vacant at this late hour, peopled only by their elongated shadows and the soaring vault buttresses. Their footfalls texture its echoing space, multiply into a quiet tympanum-thrum.

The younger man halts, spitting out the next words as though they burn his tongue. "It was my fault."

Ah. A familiar theme, rendered anew by each generation. "I have found, " the Jedi master assures him, "that _blame_ is not always so simple to apportion as we might wish."

"I don't _wish_ it!" Anakin growls, temper flaring.

Qui-Gon ignores the outburst. This is not the first angry young man he has gentled – though at Anakin's age, and with his potential…. But that is not a salutary train of thought. "I think you do. When the alternate is difficult for us to accept, we revert to self-accusation."

"What alternate?"

"That what transpired may be simply the Will of the Force. " It is a bitter pill to swallow, sometimes.

Anakin's face twists. He looks away. He has doubtless heard the same from Obi-Wan's mouth, many many times. And at exquisite length.

No, it is not what he wants to hear. His spirit rejects a providence that would permit its faithful servants to _suffer…_ a path to wisdom that demands such rigors of its pilgrims. A Force that asks sacrifice is not a _safe_ basis of devotion, not the pillar he seeks. Control, and a more nebulous desire he calls "fairness" are Anakin's polestars. These, and a reckless, unrestrained generosity, It is the latter that will save him from his own demons, those which yet haunt his footsteps.

Anakin has been Knighted – an expediency demanded by warfare—but he has yet to face his true Trial.

Much hangs in the balance, upon the outcome of that event, yet occulted beyond the future's horizon.

"It was my mistake," he insists. "That outpost was supposed to be a joint assault – both our commands. I left my clones at the rendezvous – there was a Jabiimi warlord's slave encampment four klicks away – my elites and I took it before the signal – but the order came early and Obi-Wan assumed I would be there. He was counting on reinforcements. He _never_ would have taken that kind of risk without …."

The tumble of words ceases, ending in a muffled groan.

Qui-Gon paces onward. "Your forces were ambushed. I have read the report."

He is an objector, but a conscientious one. He remains _informed._ Besides, Obi-Wan was on Jabiim.

"I should have stopped it. It would have been different if I had been there. And we would have made it to the outpost. At least some of us. Enough to help. It wouldn't have blown …. And I could have been there. To find him. Before _she_ did."

Would have, could have, should have…. How treacherous is the subjunctive, the merely possible.

"The future is always in motion; who is to say your have actions were worse? Should you have abandoned several hundred innocents to their fate, for the sake of one?"

This is not an arithmetic Anakin has ever grasped, nor likely ever will.

"What would you do, given that choice?" he spits out. "…I _let him down."_

And then failed to find him. For one hundred twenty three excruciating days., during which time…

But none of this speaks to the only relevant point, that which shapes the present moment. "Will you compound your alleged failure by disappointing him yet again? He deserves your friendship, Anakin. Your encouragement, your solidarity."

They reach the Halls far end, and double back between the paired colonnade.

"He has yours." A truculent, half-hearted objection.

"You did not seek me out to tell me that." The young Jedi has come, in fact, seeking absolution. But he is asking it of the wrong person.

Anakin grumbles something under his breath, at the same moment that Siku grunts and stirs, whimpering once before falling back into listless contentment.

"Go. He needs you."

They halt at the stairs' base. Anakin's bow is deep, though his countenance is shadowed by doubt, by conflict. "Thank you, Master."

Qui-Gon nods, adjusting the child's weight yet again and making his weary way upwards, one step at a time, toward the tranquility of the crèche dormitory, the last haven of fragile, yet unspoiled innocence.


	12. Chapter 12

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XII.**

There are voices in the corridor outside. Bant has jammed the door's magnetic pistons, securing it in the "open" position, and affording him abundant opportunity for eavesdropping. Healers are sneaky folk, conspiratorial and clannish the lot of them, but here they are chaffering in the hallway like so many peddlers' wives swapping idle gossip.

Actually, that sounds more like Bant and…. _Anakin._

When did Anakin become a healer? He has no natural flair for it. Certainly he should _not_ be assigned an internship in the pediatric unit, at any rate.

"Everything was going well until he tore off the respirator mask and aspirated bacta," Bant is whispering. "He had the whole wing on red alert for a few minutes there. It was an awful mess, and that's the first time I've ever heard Master Che use such _language."_ A soft titter.

What sort of obstreperous ignoramus would endanger himself in such manner? One cannot _breathe_ in a bacta tank. Everyone knows that.

"So then we _really_ had to knock him out flat with somatazine… and you know what bacta does to him anyway…. And he ended up going in _twice so…._ I'm very sorry, but I don't think he's quite lucid yet."

A truly _lucid_ person, he reflects academically, would be _transparent._ The I'englis of Iego's moons have a dermatoid bioluminescence which causes them to _shine,_ but in his opinion this doesn't… doesn't count. He will check the Archives database for other instances, when next he has a chance. It is an interesting question.

And then they appear as dark silhouettes in his doorway, Anakin absurdly dwarfing Bant with his height and the extravagant drape of his cloak. A spurt of gladness erupts beneath his ribs. It is good to see his mission partner and former padawan again… well, it always is good to see him. Except when they are at odds, of course. But that's what the dojo is for.

Where has he _been_ lately?

"What took you so long?" he queries, one of their many standard greetings.

Anakin scowls, but he always does that. Obi-Wan waves at the inhospitable appointments in this tiny room. "Find a seat. But make me some tea first." There are perks pertaining to seniority.

Bant bursts his bubble. "You can't have tea, Obi. You haven't eaten anything in _weeks._ We have to wean you back onto proper food."

What? What in stars' name is she blathering on about? He scowls perplexedly at the ceiling. This is probably some fatuous policy implemented when Anakin became a healer, but the effort of formulating a rhetorically effective counterargument proves… overwhelming. He decides merely to forego tea. This one time.

Bant rolls her eyes and smirks, winking at Anakin, as though they share some obscure source of hilarity.

"Master." The young Jedi scoots forward, perching on a stool like a Dagobahi grog squatting on a tiny rock, its gangly limbs folded absurdly up around its ears. "….How are you?"

"Fine." Why would he not be? He is here, in the Force, the Force in him, everything bathed in honeyed radiance.

"Oh, uh… good." Another fleeting glance exchanged between the two healers.

Speaking of which: what is the young Jedi here for? _Instructional hours?_ He loves Anakin as a brother but there in no way in the merciful Force he wants the man practicing his fledgling skills upon him. Don't they have droid manikins or something for pedagogical purposes? Interacive holographic anatomical models? He remembers helping Bant study for an exam or two… those holo cadavers were actually rather _funny,_ from a certain point of view… especially the bogus one Garen Muln and Reeft rigged up before her Pangalactic Reproductive Health cumulative….

The Mon Cal crossed both arms over her pale tunics' front, as though suspicious that he is chuckling at her expense.

He can share an inside joke, too; the Force is laughing with him.

"I… wanted to talk," Anaki n tries again. "About –"

But his sentence is cut short by a swift nod on Bant's part, a firm negative. _Don't._

Don't what? Why are these people so difficult to understand?

Now Anakin is gnawing at his lower lip, the way he was accustomed to do as a child. "Master," he begins again, haltingly. "…Obi-Wan. Look. I'll come back later. It's… good to … well, you know." He extends his flesh hand , bestowing a tentative pressure upon Obi-Wan's arm.

Oh… that. Yes. The Force swells with affection, warmth sloshing carelessly over the rim of self-control. Anakin blushes and looks away, as though stung by guilt, but the contact between them remains strong, steady.

Bant is looking at them through eyes bleary with sentiment. She must be loopy from bacta or somatazine. An occupational hazard; he does not feel sorry for her.

"Don't get into trouble without me," Anakin says, a bit huskily. It is one of their ritual parting shots, a mere polite nothing. He takes his leave in a swirl of cloak, a perceptible dampening of energy felt in his wake.

But the Force is a burbling fountain, smoothly running in to fill the gaps left behind. Bant transfers herself to the stool and leans in close, wiping her globular eyes with one webbed hand.

"Can I bring you anything, chosski-brains?"

"Tea?" Hope springs eternal, after all.

Her mouth puckers into an authoritative line. " _No,_ Obi. No tea yet."

Hm. He still does not quite comprehend the reasons behind this irrational ban on tea… but there is such a comfortable haze buffering the edges of his awareness that he wastes little time pondering its complexities. "…What about a reader?"

She ruminates upon this, blinking softly.

"Please Bant?" He lays on the charm thick as blue butter. "….Chakora Seva?"

She relents. "All right. I don't think that can do you any harm. I'll be back in a moment – don't check out on me, now, sleepy-head." She slips out again, into the hustle and murmur of the ward beyond.

What nonsense. He is not some kind of narcoleptic invalid, as she seems to suggest. He is merely _resting in the present moment._ Meditating. Keeping his focus inward and open, attentive to the Living Force. He is merely –

…Asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XIII**

Anakin's personal starfighter is a work of art; an _evolving_ masterpiece that requires constant maintenance. At the moment its stabilizers need recalibration, the fuel compression chamber needs flushing, and the starboard missile nacelle has something wonky about it which must be investigated. Besides this the thermal shielding near the cockpit seals is bearing a scar or two, necessitating some new surfacing. And one of the landing prongs got tweaked somewhere along the line, though he can't for the life of him think how that happened.

He's an excellent pilot; it must be mechanical failure. Probably the docking clamps on one of the Republic supercruisers.

"Artoo, get me the schematic for this valve system," he barks at his faithful astro-mech. A tweeting burble above confirms the request, and momentarily the dome-topped droid projects a hologram of the relevant parts.

"E'chuta." He's going to have to requisition spares from the Temple supply – and that means leaving the half dissembled fighter in the maintenance bay, hiking clear over to the tech warehouse, and then haggling with the obstinate inventory droid when he gets there.

Artoo whistles mournfully.

"Yeah, tell me about it." Blowing a frustrated breath out of both cheeks, he rolls himself clear of the chassis and wipes his filthy hands on a rag.

 _Uh-oh_ his mechanical counterpart burps, simultaneous with the appearance of a lithe, exotically silhouetted newcomer at the bay's far end.

 _Ahsoka._

He hasn't seen her in months – and it shows. He barely felt her approach in the Force, evidence of an attenuated training bond. He didn't _mean_ to shut her out – that's not it at all – but….

She edges closer, unwonted timidity in her aura.

 _Fierfek._ The youngling is _scared_ of him. Probably thinks he's mad at her, displeased, ready to repudiate her before the Council, that he doesn't trust her , doubts her ability, you name it.

He knows; he's been there himself.

And he _swore_ he would never treat his padawan like that. Obi-Wan lectured and criticized and drove him to distraction – but he never once _abandoned_ Anakin. Even when he deserved it. And Ahsoka has done nothing to deserve the two months' silence he has inflicted upon her.

"Snips," he calls out, alleviating the tension by making her intrusion a summons.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Master, but…." She hangs her head, white-chevroned montrals drooping in a double line to either side of her face.

"It's all right. Come here." He lowers himself onto the fighter's wing, inviting her to join him. She perks up, hope sparking in brilliant sapphire eyes, and quickly trots across the deck, sitting primly an arm's length away.

They are silent for an awkward handful of seconds. Ahsoka twists her hands together nervously. And what in hells' moons is she doing in _traditional_ Jedi uniform? He doesn't care about regulations like that…. She looks like an inmate, subdued and depersonalized by the drab garb. Who has been interfering with _his_ padawan, anyway? A burst of proprietary indignation floods through him, followed by a chastising second thought.

What did he _think_ would happen? Ahsoka does not simply revert to _standby_ when he is not available, like a protocol droid.

"Snips," he says. What he did to her was not _fair,_ and this burns his conscience. "I owe you an apology."

Ha can feel the unraveling of emotion within her… fear, surprise, gratitude, yearning, relief. "I … I'm glad you found Master Kenobi," she offers, acknowledging the _importance_ of his quest, the _reason_ for his hiatus. "I was worried."

About both of them.

"Yeah. I was worried too."

She clasps her fingers together, stilling their fretful motion. "Have you… have you seen him? Since you arrived home?"

Anakin shrugs. "Sort of."

"He's going to be okay, right? Because…. I could sense… I mean – "

"Obi-Wan's a survivor. He'll make it through."

She nods, vesting her trust, and thereby her peace of mind, in his absolute faith. If only he could secure his own confidence upon so illusorily solid a foundation. Because he has _never_ seen his own master so .. shaken.

And he still suspects that it might be his _fault._

And on that theme…. they might as well get to the heart of the matter. He takes a deep breath and braces himself. "Ahsoka. You have a right to lodge a formal petition – a grievance- before the Council. I won't obstruct you, and… I would understand. Truly. There are many other Jedi who could complete your training."

The hangar's cycled air seems to drop a few degrees in temperature. Ahsoka's booted toes cross, uncross. Her knees press together anxiously. "Is that what you want, Master?" she inquires, tightly.

Is she going to … _cry?_

Vape it. He is making a _eschuzzo_ mess of this. He cannot meet her eyes, so he looks straight ahead. "No."

And he cannot abide the thought of Windu's expression – Yoda's silent reprimand, the Council's smug collective assurance that they _knew he couldn't handle it_. Nor does he wish to imagine Qui-Gon's disappointment. And as for Obi-Wan, when he finds out….

 _Holy kriff._ That is not going to be pretty.

But – to his utter astonishment – the little Togruta takes the invitation as sufficient recompense for all she has suffered. Or as license to unbridle her impudence. "I'll let you off with a warning this time, Skyguy," she quips, moving a hand's-width or two closer, until they are nearly shoulder to shoulder.

His mood erupts into bright fireworks. "We'll have to see how far _behind_ you've fallen during my absence," he growls, feigning a masterly frown.

Snips dances away from the fighter, sass returning in full measure. "It's a poor student that doesn't surpass her teacher," she tosses over one shoulder. "Anoon Bondara's been teaching me _jar kai._ You better watch out, Master."

He snorts, and dismisses her with a wave of the hand. "Meet me in the lower level dining hall at sixth bell," he orders, fluidly reassuming his magisterial role. "And don't be _late."_

Her sarcastically arched brows throw the remark back in his teeth. _That's rich._ And then she is out the door with a pert curve of her lips and a saucy swing of the hips.

Atroo issues a low and lingering cat-call as she departs.

"Padawan Tano is getting re-domesticated in the dojo tonight," Anakin promises.

His astromech makes a noise disturbingly similar to a dubious snort.

"Who asked you?" The fighter is still in disarray, his tools scattered beneath it will-nilly. "Clean up this mess, Artoo, and then fuel her up. " The intended repairs can wait…. He has more pressing duties to attend.


	14. Chapter 14

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XIV.**

Sleep carries him through a full planetary rotation and half, the city-world ponderously turning beneath its unique parade of constellations, time and the Force burning away a heavy dross of drugs and forgetfulness.

He wakes to clarity, to light-headedness,... and to memory. The haze has dispersed, fog rolling from a languid mountain peak to reveal the shattered valleys beneath. And yet… light spills gently down the slopes, bearing with it a certain benison. He _does_ feel restored in significant degree, a clay pot re-fired and freshly exhumed from the kiln. He feels over the places where flesh has knit itself, vanished wounds, the play of muscle against bone, his belly, the raised line of his ribs, his collarbone, his limbs, with curious touch, like an infant soberly exploring its own physical boundaries.

Deep aches remain, and black shadows within. They stand out in sharp chiaroscuro against that which is miraculously restored by bacta and the healers' combined skill…. He is alarmed to find that he is _weak,_ a fact concealed hitherto by sheer pain. Weak, and scoured _hollow._

Bant comes and goes, apprentice healers and droids appear at regular intervals, Qui-Gon arrives at dusk and reads Chakora Seva's _Enchiridion_ to him.

The opus is of doubtful authenticity, comprising what are probably approximations of the master's lectures by a faithful padawan… but the prose is lyrical, and Qui-Gon intones each phrase with quiet gravity. It becomes a shared meditation.

Vokara Che is almost apologetic when she interrupts them, bearing in her hands a medic's datapad. Her lekku undulate subtly as sheinclines her head to the Jedi master and then addresses herself to him in a tone far more velveted than usual.

"Master Kenobi. We have… a problem. I hope you might shed some light on this."

Is he to be blamed for finding this humorously _wrong?_. It is not _encouraging_ to be asked for direction by one's own healer.

The elegant Twi'Lek seats herself at his bedside in a soft rustle of robes. "You have not _eaten_ in over three weeks," she states, crisply. "We can keep vital nutrients in your bloodstream, and maintain your blood sugar at acceptable levels – but you _must_ begin to take some proper _nourishment."_

He has no vibrant objection to this proposal; his craving for _tea,_ in particular, is making itself felt as an insistent whining, a most un-Jedi like _need._ And it would probably alleviate his low-grade, persistent headache, too.

But the Temple's senior healer is preoccupied by another problem. "There is something in the scans I cannot precisely interpret," she admits, carefully transferring the 'pad to his grasp. "Look at this, if you will."

Qui-Gon leans over his other shoulder, curious and concerned.

"Lovely," Obi-Wan grunts, studying the neon-colored display.

Vokara Che ignores his wry remark. "This is your alimentary canal, as you can see…"

He cocks a brow. Some things are better left _unseen_.

"What I wonder about are these places… here, here, here, there… and here. Also here, and here. This is _Force induced_ damage, but it is very erratic and amateurish. And , notice this, and this…. " Her fingers fly over the image, scrolling, magnifying, resolving to deeper tissue layers and then expanding again. "This is serious – or could have been. And there is sign of inflammation in these places, internal scarring. Can you remember how this might have happened?"

He lets the thin tablet drop from his fingers, and closes his eyes.

Oh. _That._

"This must be healed before you can take _anything_ to eat or drink. But internal organ damage is delicate. Can you tell me what the original cause was? Toxin? Energy dispersal? Organic?"

 _Oh stars._

This is not something he wishes to dwell upon. Qui-Gon stirs, releasing a calming breath in unison with his own.

He almost gags on the answer.

"… Muscle maggots."

Vokara Che is marvelously adept at maintaining a sabaac face. "You ingested them?" she clarifies.

"It wasn't _my idea,"_ he replies, morbidly succinct.

 _Ventress is in fine form, anger flickering about her in a dark halo. She is displeased with something, or someone… vaguely he supposes it is him. And disappointment makes her especially dangerous. His heart contracts the moment she appears, a cold anticipation flooding him._

" _So, tell me," she murmurs, deceptively gentle. "Did you enjoy the firebeetles?"_

 _Her hand is fondling his throat and jaw – and shackled in his present position, there is nothing he can do to avoid the possessive – threatening – touch._

 _Her tattooed lips twist into a leer. "Nothing to say…. ? Tsk, tsk. And you were so vocal yesterday." Bony fingers dig into his chin. "Such a pretty sound… but I would rather hear you beg."_

 _He will not give her that satisfaction._

" _Suit yourself," she shrugs. "I'll give you a choice instead, since you're so_ proud." _A deep gouge appears between her brows, a narrow exclamation mark of malice. "You can beg me to stop this game, or we can keep playing."_

 _It is not a game, and they both know it. She is merely a felix toying with crippled prey._

 _Her shaven head appears skull-like in the gloom. "What's that Jedi platitude? Better to lose an eye or a hand, than be consumed from within by hate?"_

 _Her familiarity with Jedi koans and sayings is alarming; it stirs within him a horrible suspicion, a burning question._

" _Is that what you told yourself, my sweet?" Her voice has a terrible, seductive growl to it. She wears cruelty like an expensive perfume._

 _His mental recitation of the Falling Lotus sutra is aborted by an expert punch delivered to his solar plexus._

" _Pay attention when a lady is speaking to you," Ventress sneers. She thrusts something before his watering eyes. Squinting in the dank, insufficient light, he can make out a fat and wriggling…. grub. His stomach flips._

" _There is more than one way to be consumed from within, you know." The squelching white thing squirms between her finger and thumb._

 _Suddenly he knows what is coming, and it is much, much worse than firebeetles. Cold sweat oozes along his begrimed skin._

" _Not fond of the idea?" Ventress is relishing every moment. "I'll give you an alternative: all you have to do is say the word, and I'll spare you this little discomfort. We can make your clone captain next door take the medicine instead."_

 _She has unearthed his every vulnerability, ransacked his soul and discovered every shatterpoint, every fulcrum upon which she can turn his will._

" _Your choice, Obi-Wan…. You – or Captain Alpha."_

 _The worst part is that she is deadly serious._

 _But he will not take the coward's path._

"…Easy, " Qui-Gon's voice soothes. The Jedi master's hand is upon his heaving chest, the Force emanating outward in steady, serene waves.

Vokara Che is somewhere near, too; he can feel her revulsion, her empathy. Somebody activates the self-heating function on the thermal blankets; his shivering ebbs to a subliminal tension. He focuses on breathing, on finding equilibrium.

They are talking over him, in muted tones.

"…. no sign of parasitic activity now," the Twi'Lek murmurs. " … would expect much more extensive destruction as a result. … and some of this damage is caused by Force manipulation…. an explanation…."

"That was me," he grunts, eyes still closed.

"You? What do you mean?"

He doesn't want to dwell on it. Ventress had lingered, watching, for _so long…._ And he had already vomited blood before she finally left him to his suffering. He wasn't sure he could do it, but it was his only slim hope.

"I crushed them. With the Force."

His grasp on the universal energy had been slippery, tainted by the suffocating Dark… individually locating and _squeezing_ two dozen gnawing maggots inside his own body had taken _intense_ concentration. And his clumsy efforts had still cost him a fair modicum of pain. Still, given a choice between being eaten alive from the inside out, or getting a bit _creative…_

Well.

"You could have _killed_ yourself attempting such a thing!" Vokara Che upbraids him, appalled and impressed at once.

Qui-Gon's free hand finds his knee, exerts a steady pressure.

The healer's tone mellows. "But let us thank the Force you succeeded, for the most part." She regards him almost… tenderly. He isn't sure what to … _do_ with that, so he merely nods in agreement.

It could have been much worse. And he would rather forget the entire incident. He inwardly recites the Falling Lotus sutra again, beginning to end, without violent interruption, and when he drifts back to the present moment, he finds that he is alone with Qui-Gon once more.

"Master Che is confident the damage can be mended," the tall man informs him.

His mouth twists. "Perhaps I can convince Alpha to take the cure for me instead," he suggests.

He flicks his gaze sideways, flashing a lopsided grin. But the Jedi master's grey eyes do not mirror his perversely dark humor.

"That isn't funny…. Brat."

With a single quelling look, which spares them both the awkwardness of sentiment, he flicks the reader to active and picks up with Chakora Seva where they left off.


	15. Chapter 15

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XV.**

He lowers himself cross-legged to the polished floor, aging joints cracking loudly but still supple. At this signal, every youngling in the common play room eagerly abandons his pastime or sport, that precious half-hour's amusement they are afforded each evening before curfew. It is the highest compliment, to be thus preferred over that rarest of pleasures: true leisure. One or two holo-boards disappear in mid-air, their inexpert, melodramatic dejarik matches suspended in time; a set of magnetic building implements is hastily stowed in its cupboard; a more boisterous convocation in the corner, which has been occupying itself with a complex hybrid of push-feather and hoverball, scatters and takes up position at his knees, the forgotten bauble floating lazily to the ceiling on its tiny repulsor. Within thirty seconds, every member of the clan is arranged in an expectant circle about him.

All but one, that is. Qui-Gon's mouth quirks upward at its corners.

"Tachiro."

The absentee, utterly absorbed in his book, starts out of deep and oblivious concentration, blushing violently as his peers giggle. The circle parts to admit him, and he scurries to take up his accustomed place, close to the center. It does not escape the master's attention that the boy's reader finds its way into the fold between his oversized tunics – doubtless a stowaway for late-night perusal after the clan mistress has retired, supposing all her charges obediently asleep for the night. The punishment for such deception is, by Temple standards, mild; nonetheless it will bite deeply into the miscreant's tender soul. Qui-Gon is here, however, neither to enforce the rules nor to abet the violation of them. His is an enviable role, perhaps: to observe their transgressions and foibles with impunity, relieved of the formal disciplinary burden imposed by apprenticeship or formal tutelage. They will all find their way to wisdom, the docile and indocile alike.

Age has its privileges.

Lyaam is jockeying for his attention, hand raised and posture straining upward like a compressed spring. "Master, Master… can we have _Questions_ tonight?"

" _May_ we," prim Yokoro corrects him, under her breath.

They love _Questions_ even better than _Guessing_ , or _Silent Speech,_ or _Remember,_ or _Moving Meditation._ _Stories_ runs a close second, particularly when the narrative is a juicy extract from Qui-Gon's former exploits, but _Questions_ ranks supreme. Not least because the inevitable debate always delays bedtime by an extra twenty minutes or more.

The Jedi master is in an indulgent mood. "Very well. Questions."

A palpable frisson runs through the petite assembly. They are younglings, avid for knowledge; they have more _questions_ than there are answers in the galaxy to give.

A forest of hands shoots upward, waving and wriggling to commandeer his attention first. He begins with the youngest.

"Why do plants' roots grow _down_ but their leaves grow _up?"_ Kei-Mu demands.

"Gravity," somebody mutters, dismissively.

Qui-Gon stifles the condescending outburst with a single look.

The tiny Chandrilan perseveres. "There is only one seed. How can gravity make it do opposite things?"

Her clanmates stir and mutter, pondering this elementary mystery from a new perspective.

"The seed grows outward from its center," Qui-Gon answers. "Like all Life."

But this only provokes more questions. "But why do all the leaves go one way and the roots another?"

"How does it know which kind of stem to push in each direction, Master?"

"You can plant it upside down and it still grows the right way."

Tachiro crosses his arms. "All the stems begin the same. The ones that grow toward the air become _leaves,_ and the ones that go down into the soil become _roots._ Because of where they are. Like animals and people."

The youngling may not be a natural botanist, but he stands a fair chance of ending a _philospher._

Kei-Mu shakes her head, montrals swinging. The latter explanation smacks of sophistry to her young ears. She craves a more _definite_ resolution to the problem; but too late – the idea has sparked another, and the conversation wades boldly into murkier waters. The collective inquiry flits rapidly from adaptive morphology to comparative sociology, and from thence to _ethical_ realms: if environment shapes both physical form and cultural manifestation, then does it also somehow _mold_ the will? Abruptly, they are all in too deep, far over their heads.

Qui-Gon intervenes before they flounder too badly. "The body suits itself to the physical world; cultures grow upon a trellis of language, symbol, and race-memory." The younglings hand upon his words, not quite comprehending, but _stretching, yearning_ toward a new horizon. "Every part of us has its own proper environment, some more subtle than others. What is the 'world' of the heart and will?"

"The Force?" somebody offers. It is, after all, the standard default answer for any initiate.

The tall man spreads his hands. "The Force binds _all things_ together." The answer is too general, over-reaching the target; Light penetrates matter as much as mind and spirit – existence is unitary, an outpouring without end, unfractured. But this is far too abstruse for the small ones gathered at his feet this evening. "Your bodies dwell in this place; your minds dwell in a realm of words and images. What sort of surroundings do your hearts enjoy?"

Yokomo wrinkles her nose; Sh'taal fidgets in place; Tachiro proceeds to sit upon his hands. They are at a loss, though the answer to his riddle lies directly before them, concealed in plain sight. In truth, consciousness- the mysterious core of sentience, the person – has no realm but itself, spirit cradled in youth and buttressed in age by other spirit, by the communion of peers and the sacred lineage of teaching. There is a reason Jedi travel in pairs and live in community at the Temple, beyond the obvious pragmatism.

"Other people," he tells them, simply.

Darmah takes up the thread. "If people are like an environment, then they can make someone bad or good?"

"Nobody can _make_ you be bad!"

"What if they are _Dark?"_ A single generation ago, Temple initiates were taught that the Sith no longer existed. This cohort, however, born into wartime, has no such naïve luxury.

Still, the concept retains the emotional resonance of a mere bogie-man tale, safely distant and thrilling.

"Dark people could Fall you."

" _Make you_ Fall, _"_ Yokomo mutters.

Tachiro's face is pallid, a flush standing out on either cheek; this particular bogey stalks his precocious dreams, following him with lurid eyes and a red blade, sometimes swathed in deepest shadow.

"If they can Fall you, then maybe you could Fall them back."

"That's not what it's called!"

"What if you could make them be good again?"

"You can't! If you go Dark then you are lost forever." A condemnation issued in pontifical splendor, with all the assurance of extreme youth or a tradition ossified by a millenium's complacency. Qui-Gon lifts a brow. They have been paying attention in class, these small ones.

"You can't make a Jedi knight Fall, anyway," one of them insists, clinging to this hopeful untruth.

"It has been tried," Qui-Gon reminds them. His heart clenches. A lightsaber alone is no protection against such seduction; indeed, the wisest among them would cast his aside in the face of that ultimate test. There is no safe path through the treacherous realm of Hate but that of deepest renunciation. How few Jedi seem to recall this now. The Council itself is sequestered in a Cave of Illusion, a shadow-play called The War.

"I'm scared," Kei-Mu whimpers.

Her nearest companions draw closer, instinctively comforting their smallest clanmate.

"Do not be," Qui-Gon assures her . "You have the strongest shield and protection already – each other. Where there dwells the Force, there dwells hope." _And under this ancient roof tonight, let there still be peace._

It is at this juncture that the clanmistress summons them all away; they go, most of them clustered together, issuing little objection, Yokomo with Kei-Mu's hand firmly in her protective grip.

He rises, knees protesting vocally, and shoos the last stragglers away toward the dormitory. One of the older boys lingers still, looking distinctly peaky.

"My apologies, Tachiro."

The boy hangs his head, shamed at his own transparency.

"And…." One broad hand deftly retrieves the forbidden reader from its hiding-place. "What have we here?" _Martyrs of the Early Order._ Qui-Gon's silver brows creep upward. "Not the best reading material for bedtime, young one."

"I'm sorry, Master."

"Come," the aging Jedi master sighs. "I will make you some _peruma_ tea."


	16. Chapter 16

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XVI.**

It is looking to be _that_ sort of day.

It begins with this vile drink – a medicinal liquid concocted in some dank healer's laboratory, clotted and vaguely odiferous, containing a bactoid derivative and other compounds designed to amend the damage to his poor abused entrails….. It is the distilled _essence_ of revolting, and if Bant thinks the muja nectar poured into the mix for his benefit is sufficient to dupe him into _liking_ it, then she has another think coming.

He chokes down another long draught and wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. They have promised him _tea-_ proper tea, not the diluted swill provided by the medward's nutritionist droid, but good strong leaf steeped long in a ceramic pot… he is practically _fantasizing_ about it now. Still, if the reward for enduring eight liters of this hellish potion is _tea,_ then he will do what he must.

Besides, he can almost swallow without reflexive gagging now. That has to be counted as progress.

The day begins with this dubious parody of "breakfast" and quickly devolves from there.

He and the dental droid are not and have never been on the best of terms, ever since he had his wisdom teeth pulled as a junior padawan. There are certain noxious forms of "health care" which cannot be easily forgiven, compassion and the Code notwithstanding. But of course, because the Force in its infinite wisdom has deigned to spare him _nothing-_ this is not bitterness, it is acceptance of _fact-_ the star-forsaken cybernetic sadist _has_ to darken his doorstep not five minutes after he has conquered his first serving of slop-du-jour.

It claims that his upper mandibular something-or-other is cracked and demanding immediate redress.

A swift reconnaissance of his teeth, discreetly accomplished by running his tongue along their inner faces, reveals no particular cries for attention. The droid is and always was a shameless liar.

But of course he has little choice in the matter; Vokara Che arrives on the droid's heels, accompanied by two callow apprentice healers. This is underhanded blackmail; she knows he will not fuss too vociferously in the presence of padawans for whom he is duty-bound to set a good example. Perhaps, he muses, -if he were feeling up to snuff- he would set them a fine example of how a truly masterly Force manipulation can be employed to blow the central processor clean out of a droid's head. He and Anakin have been practicing the technique upon battle-bots to very satisfactory effect lately. In fact, it has become a sort of contest between them. Not that anyone is keeping score.

When the 'procedure' is complete, he runs his tongue along the back of his teeth again, resenting the lingering aftertaste of sick-sweet muja syrup, and the droid's intrusion. Shameful to admit, but that _was not_ easy…. For so many reasons.

He exhales, slowly. _Peace, breathe, the Force._

Things do not improve after the morning's debacle, either; he is still raw from the experience – far too close to…. well, too invasive for comfort – when he receives the revelation that his afternoon has been slated for physical therapy . _This_ directly after soldiering through another repast of impalatable slime.

And Vokara Che, characteristically ruthless, and possibly bordering his own purported genius for military tactics, has employed the big guns for this campaign. That is, she has byassed the usual practitioners and assigned Cin Drallig to the task. The formidable retired weapons-master is a specialist in open-hand combat, besides the usual martial expertise common among Jedi – and his idea of "therapy" is clearly predicated upon the same basic principles.

"Stop whining, Kenobi!"the burly master chuckles. "You're going to find your favorite 'saber kata an absolute vetch if we don't restore your range of motion."

The idea of 'saber drills is a bright flare of hope, a sunrise yet over his darkened horizon. The thought carries him through the next set of excruciating 'exercises', and then -

"You don't want Skywalker to school you next time the two of you spar, do you?"

Oh, hells no. Not over his dead body, but -

"Stars! " Cin barks, enjoying his job far too much to be healthy. "Jinn is going to wallop you like a wayward akk pup, if that's the best you can manage!"

Even worse. He grits his (recently repaired) teeth and stoically endures the next few minutes, until…

Somehow, the straining and stretching of muscle and cartilage, tendon and ligament pushes him past the line between present and past, aftermath and original cause… and he is a broken marionette hanging disjointedly upon his captor's whim.

 _Ventress tilts his head up by the chin. "Remember, whatever you can't finish, Captain Alpha can. Just tell me when you've had enough, and we'll carry on next door."_

 _He hasn't the strength to speak. Stay conscious…. stay conscious…. If he passes out, she will make good on her promise to impose the 'remaining' penalty upon the clone…. The more he endures, the less will be visited upon another…. There is a suffocating logic to it, inexorable and primal as the hot, salty liquid trailing down his face._

 _He teeters on the brink of oblivion. No – no – stay here, say something – he is Jedi, he will not consign another being to torment…_

" _More," he begs, panting the word out like a starveling creature whimpering for scraps._

" _What's that?" Ventress wets her lips. "Where are your manners?"_

 _His grip on awareness is slippery, precarious. "Please," he manages to whisper, but already he is sliding toward blackness, pain clouding out sensation, thought…._

 _And it is too late; they are headed into the adjacent cell, to make sure poor Alpha completes the punishment intended for him._

Cin Drallig's hand is strangely gentle. "Peace, brother."

He is drenched, and aching. "I can do more," he informs the older Jedi, pulse thundering in his ears.

"No. That's enough for today. I'll inform Master Che that we've made good progress."

A fierce old warrior the weapons-master may be, but his courtesy is impeccable. He bows, and takes his leave without any further humiliating display of sympathy.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and allows the memory to ebb away into the Force, until Bant shows up with another fresh-made serving of medicinal drink for him.

When he tells her politely to send the Force-damned bantha emesis cocktail to the nine Sith hells, with his personal compliments to the host, she grins.

"You're grumpy, Obi! That's wonderful – it's a sign of recovery."

It is not a sign of recovery, it is a sign that he should be left bloody alone. He does not see the blasted semiotic disjunction here. And furthermore, he is not drinking more of that …. that….

 _Karking Hutt-shit,_ to borrow an expressive colloquialism from Anakin. He folds both arms tightly over his chest and retreats into a fulminating silence.

Bant has the audacious effrontery to embrace him. "Drink up," she reminds him, disappearing before he can fire off a suitable parting shot.

In light of all this, can he really be blamed for seeking refuge in a secluded corner of the meditation garden? He and Chakora Seva are going to while away the evening hours in solitude, unburdened by dentistry, or physical therapy, or nutrition shakes, or any other unkempt threads trailing from the hem of the Dark's stifling Shroud.

Yes, it has been precisely _that_ kind of day.


	17. Chapter 17

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XVII**.

"I am sorry, Master Skywalker," – Vokara Che's formal address always has, to his ears, a persnickety overtone to it – "but he truly _must not_ be disturbed. It has taken me _all this time_ to coax him into a proper healing trance, and now that we've achieved that milestone, I won't have days' worth of effort wasted. I am sure you understand."

The latter sentiment having much more of _command_ than declaration about it.

Anakin grumbled inwardly. He is all but climbing the Temple walls, working up the nerve for this dreaded but needful encounter again and again only to be frustrated at every attempt. It is so infernally _easy_ for Qui-Gon to speak to the man – he simply shows up, and without effort the two of them are chuckling, debating philosophy, reminiscing, or sitting in amicable silence, the Force coursing steady and strong between them.

Shouldn't it be like that for him too? He was _padawan_ to Obi-Wan since the age of eight; the Jedi master is the closest thing he has to a father, or a brother. But their friendship is never easy. It is _intense, spectacular,_ unique. But _simple?_ Never. There are nuances to it, tropes and variations within its tight-woven texture. There is a often a contest of wills involved, a dynamic tension that propels them forward like a magrail train along its polarized course; there is something of competition in it, something of passion for _absolutes;_ there is a precarious balance between their respective losses – their suffering is agonizingly contrapuntal, keeping them poised upon a pinpoint of sanity.

Obi-Wan believes to his hidden core in _obedience -_ yet he is the most godawful defiant son of a vetch ever born. You have to _know_ him to see this. It lurks around the serrated edge of his wit, it adds that peculiar, deadly flourish to his 'saber style, it is what makes him able to _laugh in the face_ of captors, tormentors, the Dark itself. You could say he is the most repressed Jedi in the Order, and that would be an understatement. He is a veritable nuclear fission reaction fettered and restrained by its own will. This is his _only_ "surrender" – a kind of homage paid to the Force itself, an unbreakable vow scribed on his extremely well-guarded heart.

Anakin is different. He doesn't hide his heart, and he has never constrained it within the arcane shackles of Code and tradition. He wears it upon his sleeve, he gives it where he will, he follows its promptings without doubt and seldom with regret. He is a scandal to other Jedi; he is a conundrum and a sign of contradiction. It is not obedience that fuels his fire – it is _liberty._ Born a slave, he can never forget the scourge of injustice. He _will_ set the skewed universe straight, by the might of his will or his arms, or a combination of both. He thirsts for peace like a man parched and dying in the Jundland wastes, and he will secure it by any means. He is not afraid of the fragile boundaries scribed by others' hesitance. He was _born to help people,_ and he will not be denied his birthright.

Obi-Wan is essentially unbreakable, while he is innately unstoppable.

Together they are unspeakably formidable. And they joke a lot, too. He's not sure where that came in, but sometimes he thinks that if they didn't banter and laugh, they would be screaming at one another.

"I will comm you when next visitors would be salutary," the senior healer informs him. She is dropping a broad hint that he should leave now.

"Thank you, Master Che…. I wonder if I could see Captain Alpha?"

The stately Twi'Lek blinks, lekku twitching. His request is unexpected, but –

"He has just been discharged. I don't see why not." She waves a hand toward the left hand corridor, inclining her head to him as he passes by.

It is only right that _somebody-_ somebody who was there in the field, on Jabiim, give the valiant clone a proper send off.

Alpha is clad in Republic standard uniform, the drab greys of the GRA – not his field armor. He has shaved his head and face, the faintest traces of healing cuts or burns texturing his golden skin. Fett's hard-etched features are more dramatic still in his face; he has yet to regain some lost weight, and will be returning to Kamino to complete his rehabilitation. There is no true _rest_ for the soldiers of the Army. Nor do they crave it.

"General Skywalker, sir," he says, dark brows rising at the apparition in his doorway.

"I wanted to say _thank you,"_ the young Jedi explains.

"I did no more than my duty, or what any of my brothers would have done," the captain fires back, automatically. It reminds Anakin of the standard Jedi brush off: _we come to serve._

"No," he insists. "I don't mean for any of that." Jabiim, captivity, not breaking under torture, following protocol in returning to neutral space and signaling for Republic aid on a close-encrypted channel… this is all _programmed_ into the man. But there is something more, something that leaves Alpha _altered,_ his presence in the Force a trifle brighter than his identical comrades.

The clone soldier looks bemused.

" I mean for… helping General Kenobi. After you escaped. "

He must have; Obi-Wan would have been in _dire_ condition, all but dead on his feet. He would have needed not merely Alpha's competence, his reliability and loyalty to the Republic's cause. He would have clung to whatever thread of compassion was proffered him, as to a lifeline.

Alpha seems to sense that somewhere during that journey, he was more than a conditioned unit. His humanity has transgressed the limits of his formation, his _personality_ sent out a green tendril into the open air above. For one such as him, a life brewed and decanted and sold to the highest bidder by utterly detached technicians, the very act of _friendship_ with any but his brothers is one that cracks a fissure in existential bedrock.

"The General is… remarkable, sir. it was my honor."

Emotion flickers in his deep set eyes, then dips below the surface again, a whaladon returning to its abysmal peregrination.

"Right."

They exchange a salute, and the captain walks out, head high and back straight.

Anakin feels the kindling of a new fire, a familiar burning beneath his ribs. His robotic hand clenches. When the war is over – when they have _won –_ he is going to _free_ all the clones, too. Every last one of them.

Starting with Alpha.


	18. Chapter 18

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **VXIII.**

The Force's supernal tides waft him ashore, luminous breakers receding in gentle rivulets, leaving him curled upon white sands… upon the light-drenched border between _unity_ and _otherness._ The oceanic pulse contracts to breath and the quiet surge of blood; for a long while he still floats, spirit awash in peace, the demands of the body reduced to a nullity, an embryonic content.

Except…

Except… even here, in this graced _coda_ between trance and wakefulness, there is something _amiss…_

A scum of tarry filth still clings to his inmost soul, a stain which will not be washed clean but must be _scoured_ off. That is the Dark's last and clinging trace, the oily _ooze_ from a half-healed wound, a violation hidden to all but himself.

He crashes back into the present moment and sensation, adrenaline coursing chill and fleet in his veins.

But this is not panic; it is something else: clean, focused _fear,_ the instinctive anticipation of combat to come. He has a battle yet to win. If he does not emerge victorious, than he has not escaped _at all._ Ventress will own him until he gasps his last dying breath unto the Force.

"Good morning," a mellifluous voice greets him.

Qui-Gon has appeared in the doorway. His grey eyes are wary.

"Master."

The tall man crosses the tiny space in two long strides and sits nearby, short silver beard bristling as he juts his chin in suspicion. "I know that look," he remarks, fixing his friend and former student with a penetrating gaze.

Obi-Wan raises mental shields – slowly, stealthily, smiling a little as the invisible fortifications weave themselves into place, armor and sanctuary, veils of Light and focused will. His companion narrows his eyes, the subtle Force manipulation neither escaping him nor assuaging his _bad feeling._

"I have work to do."

The older man releases a long breath. "Would you perhaps consider deferring this…. work… until we've had tea? I brought you my best dragon-scale _sapir."_ Which can no longer be obtained inside Republic borders, due to the embargoes imposed by wartime. It is best not to inquire whence Qui-Gon's supplier obtained the forbidden import… or how the maverick Jedi master justifies his dabbling in black market trade.

 _Tea._ Pitched conflict with the powers of darkness can wait a bit longer. He is a _civilized_ man.

"Splendid." He cautiously lowers his feet to the cool floor, and tests his weight. "I'll get dressed."

Qui-Gon raises both brows as he wobbles to the threshold and issues a masterly imperative to the nearest apprentice healer. "I want fresh uniform – and my _'saber._ Master Che will have it in her keeping. Oh – and a candle."

A bow, one hand grasping the doorframe as a safety measure , and he is emboldened to expand his campaign. There is a 'fresher somewhere in this accursed wormhole of a medical ward – and he intends to have a proper shower, water then sonics then more water. With _halsa_ soap. He ignores Qui-Gon's now audible chuckle and sallies forth on his quest, buoyed by the illimitable Force and the promise of _tea._

Twenty standard later he is marvelously restored. True, the terrified padawan only managed to find him some clean trousers and an undertunic, but he wraps the latter's folds neatly over his emaciated frame and cinches the belt-band tight. A swift glance in the mirror reveals haggardly jutting cheekbones and a deathly white complexion– though his beard is coming back in nicely- except for those incongruous and premature grey threads - and when he scowls at the reflection's wasted appearance, it responds in kind, jaw set and eyes flashing.

He is not beaten yet.

" _Master_ Kenobi," Vokara Che huffs, when he pads barefoot back into his cell. "Really –!"

"My thanks," he replies, reverently accepting his lightsaber hilt from her outstretched hands. The senior healer is clearly unamused by his antics, and dubious as to his intent – as she should be – but this is sacred tradition and neither of them will flout its age-old precepts. A Jedi's weapon is his life; his right to its possession ,and all that it implies, is inalienable except through dishonor.

"You are _not_ planning any _foolishness,"_ the Twi'Lek growls, lips pursing.

He snaps into Negotiator mode. "Merely _tea_ with Master Jinn." An ingratiating display of dimples. "And meditation." A wax candle has been left upon the bedside table. "I am sure you willl agree that both are quite innocuous."

Vokara Che is not so easily duped, but she is cornered and outplayed in this round. She casts a long and meaningful look at Qui-Gon, one commissioning the elder to _forestall_ any "foolishness" on his junior counterpart's behalf, and amply warning of _consequence_ should he fail to curb his friend's imprudent streak.

The Jedi master places one hand over his heart and inclines his head. On Petrichor, this is a gesture signifying polite disengagement from controversy, but the healer predictably misinterprets it. She grudgingly capitulates, withdrawing in a rustle of long robes and an aggrieved wriggle of lekku.

"Very well, brat," Qui-Gon murmurs when they are assured of solitude. "I know better than to stand in your way – but I will extract this promise: whatever it is you intend to achieve with this _meditation,_ you will accept my assistance, if only as anchor."

They are both masters in their own right; no authority exists between them but that of respect and natural affection. However, trust and personal history make their own claims upon conscience, upon the heart. However, the idea is not…. Is not _welcome._

"Qui-Gon," he begins.

"No objections. I think I may safely say that for the first time in a decade, I could easily twist you into whatever wrestling bind pleases my whim, and hold you there until Hoth thaws."

Obi-Wan frowns. This is _his_ struggle; it s too obscene to be shared. But then… Ventress was witness to his humiliation; why should a fellow Jedi be banned from that which a Sith acolyte claimed, against all right and reason? And besides: better Qui-Gon than Anakin. If Anakin ever _guesses_ to what extremity his torment at Ventress' hands reached….

He brushes the thought aside until later. A cold pit is forming in his gut, now that the moment draws near. His resolve is not wavering ; no…. but if he allows himself to _think_ too closely about what he is about to attempt –

"I would be honored, Master."

The older man relaxes visibly. "Tea first," he decides.


	19. Chapter 19

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XIX**

It is the most _exquisite_ tea he has ever tasted, this aromatic brew – his first real nourishment since arriving home, his last before turning his face willingly back toward the Dark. They perform the long-version ceremony, slowly, making no haste, savoring the present moment, this one illumined peak between abysmal valleys. Qui-Gon watches him gravely the entire time, saying nothing.

There is nothing to say which is not better expressed by silence.

When they have done, Obi-Wan lays his 'saber solemnly across his knees, while Qui-Gon lights the single meditation candle. The single white flame years upward, courage and wisdom melting lumpen wax into limpid spirit. In its trembling corona he discerns two upward-bending wings, the Order's ancient insignia and battle standard. Though it is broad daylight far, far outside the Temple's high walls, the room is dimmed, penumbral figures taking form at the periphery, where meditation erodes the fragile boundaries of time and place.

They draw breath in unison, completing the circle, forging a bright connection around the steady flame atop its humble pillar. In a moment, they will plunge from this high precipice, into bottomless night. They stand, side by side, kneeling opposite one another, motionless at the very brink.

The moment stands still, their hearts slowly beating out a dirge, a slow martial rhythm.

He cannot leap; he will not Fall of his own will. That would be…..

"Qui-Gon."

Perhaps he did not speak aloud; it matters little. The Jedi master's presence is solid, attentive and rooted deep in the Living Force.

This must be done. If he turns back now, he surrenders. He squeezes his eyes shut. "….. I need you to cover my face."

There is a second's pause, a phantom of hesitation. When the tall Jedi's fingers brush against his forehead, graze his temples, he shudders, heart congealing into heavy lead, and then running molten into his twisting belly. This is not _fear,_ this is _visceral_ revulsion, paralyzing dread. He feels his own hands grip convulsively at the other man's forearms. "Just do it. Please."

Qui-GOn's next inhalation is a soft hiss, but he does not balk at the task. A faint rasp of cloth on skin – scent of linen, clean and simple – it might be a sash, or perhaps nothing more than a training blindfold like the younglings wear in the dojo….

 _Oh Force._

He breaks out in a cold sweat almost before the thin strip is secured. It gently muffles mouth and nose, eyes…. A shroud clinging and suffocating, an iron vise closing about his _mind…._

 _No. No, no -_ He gasps, sucking in hot air through the close-woven fibers -

Qui-Gon's hands bracket his shoulders, holding him steady as they _plunge_ headlong into abject degradation, into the catacombs beneath hell.

" _It is a Sith torture mask," Ventress gloats._

 _It is an impossibility, an obscenity beyond comprehension. The Dark is incarnate, a blind and ravenous worm gnawing at the world's roots, its gaping maw velvet soft, smothering and enveloping – he has been swallowed whole, is suffocating in its gullet, eaten alive – he writhes desperately for escape, but it closes about him tighter, closer, inward inward, penetrating violating -_

" _Keep fighting, darling. The harder the better."_

 _He throws his whole will against it, every broken fiber of his being screaming in defiance – but his revulsion is its strength. Fear blossoms in inky pools, tibbanna wells ignited by his heaving breath, sparked to explosive flame by his cries. His resistance binds him tighter, his rejection of the Dark flays him open to its depredations, his agony bleeds inward, choking him on clotted night. He drowns, and drowns, and the world is eviscerated, turned inside out, light into dark, pure into taint, starlight into the morass of endless void._

 _He is screaming for the Light to save him, but it is the Dark that hears his plea._

" _Aren't you glad we saved the best for last?"_

 _It is clear now: all that has gone before was but prelude to this, her coup de grace. Starvation, abuse, torment – none of this was for its own sake but only to render him vulnerable to this awful alchemy, a death worse than death. Even now he can feel himself_ transforming, _light into shadow, hope into despair, compassion into cruelty. He will be digested by the Dark, assimilated to its emptiness, rendered unto its likeness. Ice runs in his veins, freezes his hoarse shouts to a strangled whimper._

" _Welcome," Ventress purrs. Abruptly, he is horribly transparent to her, and she to him; they are grafted together on a loom of hate, darkness running in both their veins, a universal poison melting them into one enthralled creature. "This is what you call the Dark Side. But know now: this is the_ truth."

 _Certainty floods him, black illumination:_

 _Jabiim, thousands of corpses, trampled in the mire. The Republic's outposts are ragged craters, slowly filled by the weeping sky._

 _Anakin lies among them, carcass gashed and smoking. Every padawan in the company is dead, cold hail pummeling their beheaded corpses._

 _He clamps down upon his pain, an engrained reflex._

" _No, no…. let it fill you. Do you feel that? That is pain. You_ like _pain, Obi-Wan. Remember?"_

 _He is begging for pain, inviting it, panting for it - no, no – that was to save Alpha – that wasn't –_

" _You enjoy it. You want Captain Alpha to suffer, don't you?"_

 _Alpha is grunting, shouting… pain cascades through the Force, the clone cruelly abused before his very eyes, a victim upon this twisted altar, sacrificed so he might be damned…. He is begging now, pleading for his comrade's release –_

 _Only he is not, he is calling for Alpha's blood, urging his tormentor on, wracked with glee, with maniacal pleasure, with_ joy _at another's agony –_

 _No! How can that be! It isn't – he isn't – he cannot – he will not –_

" _You are," Ventress whispers. Her claws sink deep into his tattered psyche, tearing out deep memory, disgorging long-buried sorrow. "Oh, you are. Look at you…. look at what they've done. Look what they did to_ her."

 _It is too much to bear – he cannot –_

" _They've abandoned you again. They've left you here, because you are Dark. Remember Melida-Daan? The Jedi know who you are. You were Dark then, you are now…. Admit it. Search your feelings."_

 _He is facing apocalyptic ruin, desolation overrun with the undead, alone, unaided, sick to the bone, abandoned to his fate, cut off and left to die… to Fall…. He is mad, at odds with himself, at war with the Other, the voice of unreason, of lies, of hatred._

" _Hate," Ventress urges him. "It's so easy…. Just let go."_

 _He is Dark, he is a collapsed star, a black hole, a blight upon the galaxy's face – he can only protect the innocent by annihilating himself – he will die before he succumbs… He is kneeling before the Council, head bowed, craving extinction in lieu of Darkness. There must be a way out…_

 _His lightsaber hilt is shoved hard against his ribs, just below the heart. "Say the word," she breathes. "Tell me to kill you. Take the path of despair."_

 _But there is no way out. To despair is to Fall, to Fall is to lapse into a consuming oblivion, an empty worm eating itself, hunger without end, the Pit from which there is no redemption. Forever it will dominate your destiny. He has sworn a vow to the Light itself, he cannot die an apostate, one of the Fallen, the Lost with their staring bronzium eyes…._

 _He is possessed; time crumbles into measureless pain, vision rises in an obliterating cloud, the Unifying Force parting the future's veils, revealing the bloody stage beyond, the consummation of all things:_

 _Men fall like snowflakes, clad in white, falling in the thousands and millions; a black moon rises to eclipse every sun; the Temple burns, its younglings broken, scattered like winter'sleaves, dead eyes gaping at the shattered vauts above, open to a heaven peopled by falling stars, the winged flame descending, its Light gone from the galaxy -_

 _His soul will surely wrench free from its mooring, sorrow wracking him apart._

 _But there is more; the Mask floods him with its secrets, with the truth:_

 _A cowled figure haunts the scene, the playwright at work, unmaking all, melting it in a wrathful forge, red-hot, molten lava flowing in crimson rivers, remaking the world in his own image, in the image of consuming hate._

 _He seizes the hem of that shadowed mantle, rips it off –_

 _And looks upon his own visage._

" _Say the word." Ventress' breath is hot on his neck. The saber is poised beneath his heart. One word._

 _One word of surrender. Despair. Embrace the truth, embrace the ascendancy of power, of domination, true peace, true balance_

" _Anakin!" he screams. "You were supposed to bring balance!"_

 _But Anakin is dead. They are all dead, every one of them. He alone remains, abandoned, isolated, the sole survivor, while twin red eyes glare down upon him endlessly, inescapable, condemning._

 _His punishment will never end, for there is no redemption from the Pit._

 _The Mask is part of him now, his true face, the black and lifeless skull when all else has been burned away in fire, when he is dismembered and born again in hell, in chains of his own hatred, encased entombed undying death -_

"Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan!"

 _He is sobbing uncontrollably on the 'fresher floor, twelve years old, exhausted, the tang of his own vomit sharp in his nostrils, his limbs shaking - Qui-Gon beside him, unperturbed, strong, full of Light, soothing, reassuring, holding him while he weeps, dispelling shadow with simple words –_

" _You are not Dark."_

"Obi-Wan. Hear me."

He is sobbing, exhausted, the bitter aftertaste of bile in his throat, his limbs shaking – Qui-Gon holding him – tight, against his chest, for all the world like a twelve year old padawan – he is weeping, unashamed, unable to stop, to resist any longer, to hold out –

"Peace. Hear me."

The mask is gone. He is not _there…_ not….

He slumps forward, utterly spent, the 'meditation' dissolving with the last coils of candle smoke.

Qui-Gon's voice is not _perfectly_ serene, not entirely unperturbed. But his protective grip is no less firm.

The mask is gone – he ripped it off, he ripped himself out, he ripped the lie apart….

The Jedi master speaks his next words to someone else, over his shoulder, a mute witness standing appalled and silent just behind. There is urgency beneath his rigid calm.

"Anakin. … come. He needs you."


	20. Chapter 20

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XX**

Anakin trips haltingly over the threshold, all but stumbling upon his astonishment. He does not know whether he is more scandalized by the undisguised pain grooving Qui-Gon's bold features, or the shuddering mess which is his best friend and brother in arms.

This is not supposed to happen. _He_ is the one who loses control. Not –

"Here. Anakin." The Jedi master's tone is peremptory, but his eyes are glossed with something much softer.

He drops to his knees, allows the tall man to push Obi-Wan into his arms.

"….Anakin?"

"I'm here. I'm here, Master." He wraps both arms around his friend's chest, his own heart thudding frantically against his sternum. Because he has _seen…_ what nobody has ever been permitted to see before. Obi-Wan's head lolls back against his shoulder. He is shaking pretty badly – probably in shock – what in holy _bachooki_ was he thinking?

The sentiment is echoed aloud, from the corridor just beyond, where a cyclonic disturbance is hustling its way toward them.

" _What in Force's name is going on in here?"_ Vokara Che demands, appearing in the doorframe, girded in full battle array, a fiercely protective aura scintillating about her.

It is Qui-Gon who rises to meet the assault, one hand raised in a pacific gesture, the cadence of his voice pitched to a perfect diplomatic calm. His broad frame also conveniently blocks both the healer's view and her path.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan mutters. "….Get me out of here."

 _What?_

"…Not done yet."

This is madness. "Master, you were _done_ when I found you."

 _He picks up the signal six points shy of the Hygerrian, way off course for a jump from Jabiim, almost outside Republic space. But the moment his comm array decrypts the simple distress signal, he is powering toward the coordinates._

 _Months of searching, sleepless and pitiless weeks of scouring the Rims for one presumed dead, have been rewarded. He has wrested a miracle from the Force by the strength of resolve, pried open the jaws of fate and yanked its latest prey forcibly from its yawning gullet._

 _He will not suffer those he loves to be destroyed. Never again._

 _The ship is not Republic issue; clunky, battle-scarred, it is devoid of any insignia, including that of the CIS. It is also pathetically indefensible. I'taxi mercenaries are already swarming over the hull, six or seven boarding pods clinging barnacle-like to the shielding, laser drills going to town while a handful of scouts and a lumbering capital vessel stand off to starboard, waiting for the feast to begin._

 _Two dozen heavy guns versus him and his lightweight Delta fighter?_

 _They are hopelessly outnumbered._

 _By the time he has blasted the scouts into smoldering confetti trails, blown the barnacles off into oblivion, and sent the mothership fleeing into the next sector, their damaged prey is listing off-kilter, stabilizers on the fritz. And it takes Artoo several long minutes to override the remote security codes and open the docking bay. He edges the Delta through the mag-con, skids to a sloppy halt on already scuffed decks, and vaults out of the cockpit before his fusion drives have stopped whining._

 _Alpha looks like hell, but he manages a salute. "General Skywalker, sir. I thought we were goners there for a minute." The clone elite trooper is on no condition to fight, that much is obvious. And…_

" _Where's Obi-Wan?"_

" _General Kenobi, sir?" Alpha's face is grave. He limps back toward the cockpit, collapsing into the battered pilot's seat while Anakin sinks into a crouch beside the bloodied, bruised, and feverish wreck bundled on the rear acceleration couch._

" _Master…" He chokes up. His vision swims, colors blurring into indistinct rage and sorrow._

 _Obi-Wan is almost unrecognizable, hair and beard overgrown, face ghastly white and eyes sunken, Force presence coiled so tightly inward it barely registers. He is nearly comatose with exhaustion. He flinches like a wounded beast when Anakin touches him._

" _It's okay, it's okay…." The mantra is more for his own benefit; he is fooling nobody. "We're gonna rendezvous with the Republic fleet, get a decent shuttle… I'm taking you back to the Temple, Master…. We're going home, it's okay."_

 _Anakin's blood is roiling; he has to_ know. _"Who was it, Captain? Who did this?"_

" _Nasty piece of work, sir. Witch -lady. The General called her Ventress, if I heard right."_

 _Asaaj Ventress. Anakin's prosthetic hand closes in a crushing fist. He already owes the pu'utala Sith for the scar over his eye. Now she has signed her own death warrant, scrawled the order for her execution all over Obi-Wan's wasted body._

 _He will_ avenge _this atrocity, may the Force guide his blade._

"Anakin," Obi-Wan pants. "….Let's go. Now."

He wrenches himself back to the present moment. The tall Jedi master has maneuvered his dispute with the senior healer a few paces backward down the hall, leaving their escape route clear. Vokara Che's strident tones echo in the corridor, her husky accented voice rising and falling with oratorical passion. Master Qui-Gon is getting a _royal_ dressing-down, and the very thought of it makes Anakin smile, despite everything else.

He snorts, a dark spurt of humor alleviating the awful shadows in this place. "You hear that?"

Obi-Wan's bark of laughter is close to a sob, but the Force flares between them, rocket-bright, a joke shared at _Qui-Gon's_ expense, a delight so sharp it hurts, a piece of childish mischief enjoyed behind Master's back….

"Now. Let's go." Obi-Wan is scrambling to his feet, trying to lever himself up against Anakin, one hand reaching for his 'saber, teeth bared in that _come-what-may_ feral snarl of determination.

Oh _kark._ "What in the hells, Obi-Wan! You can't –"

"Just help me!" Obi-Wan snaps, obnoxiously in command, pathetically clinging to Anakin for support.

This is insane. Like most the situations they manage to get into. It dawns on him that Qui-Gon is stalling, for their sake, that the dramatics outside are a _ruse._ "Okay, okay – easy! Let me help you." This will never work. They will never escape, simply _walk_ _out_ of the healers' ward. "Where are we going?"

"Quarters," Obi-Wan orders. "….Have to finish this."

They stagger out the door, Anakin doing most the work, more or less dragging his companion toward the exit. A veritable mob of onlookers has congregated in the hall, drawn to the spectacle of Vokara Che telling Master Qui-Gon _exactly_ what she thinks of his conduct and character.

Noboby notices their limping egress; they are forgotten amid the long-overdue tempest unfolding just beyond.

Can they be blamed for sniggering, just a little, as they slip clumsily into the lift tube and are whisked toward the upper level concourse?

"Another brilliant escape," Obi-Wan grunts. There is still salt moisture drying in his beard, and he would certainly collapse if Anakin were not propping him upright.

Anakin still has a _very bad feeling_ about this, but at least one thing is right with the world again.

They are facing it together.


	21. Chapter 21

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XXI**

His quarters – once Qui-Gon's, then shared for many years with Anakin, now home only to himself, the second bedchamber now strangely vacant, a lacuna demanding occupancy – are immaculately tidy, as he left them. The cycled air is fresh enough; the maintenance droids must have swept and dusted a few times during his prolonged absence. Though, he notes with a pang of vexation, the balcony windows have been left ajar. The mandrangea bean arbor on the balcony is wildly overgrown - white blossoms skitter through the open doors, a bridal strewing of wind-blown ivory blooms across the worn marble floors.

The scent is bittersweet, evocative. He winces.

Anakin clears away the mess with a curt wave of his hand; he squints sideways, and deposits Obi-Wan upon the nearest meditation cushion, standing over him with feet planted square and arms folded. "Now what?"

Now he finishes the fight.

If he can but summon the courage.

"Lock the door." Bant will be here soon, on the warpath.

Anakin jams the mechanism from the inside and stalks across the room to find a new candle. He fishes the heirloom Vespari steel knife out of his boot, somberly trimming the wick back. "I… I saw what she did to you," he says, not making eye contact.

Obi-Wan lets his focus wander out onto the sheltered balcony, watching another bean blossom detach itself from its bending stem and spin away into Coruscant's sun-bleached sky. He releases a long breath.

Anakin is making a great deal of fuss over the candle, his eyes shadowed and his mouth set in a hard line. "She tried to Turn you, didn't she? With that… thing?"

He draws a hand over his face. _The mask._ That such depravity could be forced down his throat…. Maggots were nothing compared to _that._ Abruptly, he does not want to continue the battle. He could just _rest_ here, as flower after flower is gently sundered from its vine and floats away into the Force, never to be seen again. _Release:_ is that not what he has been taught, from the crèche?

His gut clenches. There is no _releasing_ what was… done to him. It is gouged too deeply, a foul vandalism carved upon his heart. It is not _he_ who is clinging to pain, to memory; it is the _Dark Side,_ still clinging to him.

This is a fight to the death. And he is still locked in its throes, whether he _wants_ it or not.

"How did you escape?" Anakin demands. He sets the candle down, palming the knife in his left hand.

"I don't know."

He cannot remember. And that is the crux of this horrible matter – for he _walked away,_ with Alpha in tow _…._ Somehow. In his most desperate moment, the Force spoke to him- the Light shone even in black despair, a sanctuary lamp kindling of its own fire within the Dark's vast and echoing temple. It must have, for how else could he have emerged _alive,_ _unbroken_ from that deepest perdition?

He smoothes the scruff on his chin and draws in a long centering breath. He must go _back there,_ if he is to leave in truth and fact.

But still his heart rebels. He _cannot do it._ Yet he must.

There is a long silence. Flowers continue to fall, disappearing over the balcony rail's white horizon.

After several minutes, Anakin seems to steel his nerve. He abruptly kneels down, pressing his forehead to the floor in a full kowtow.

"It's my fault," the penitent declares. " I – everything that happened was my fault. I wasn't at my post on Jabiim. I failed you, Master."

This is … unexpected. Anakin does not… apologize. Not like this. The world is turned on its head again, the familiar constellations of duty and rank shaken apart, tumbled into a disorderly heap. In the past hour, he has been reduced to a mewling child, and Anakin has become a _man,_ a Jedi in more than name and title. All this at Ventress' hands… and yet, not. For here is the subtle unwinding of a strangling skein, a confounding of the Dark's fatal knot. Can the Light work unseen, beneath the guise of its opposite?

"Anakin," he begins, but the words are dammed by his constricting throat. how can he give guidance or comfort when he is so ruined, helpless? How can he dare to _blame,_ for that matter?

"There was a slave encampment," the young Jedi explains, hoarsely, still face-downward.

Oh... yes. It is so long ago now, aeons and aeons ago. Before... that place. He smiles bitterly. "I know. Anakin… I knew what you were doing. I could have delayed the order."

 _But I marched on the outpost anyway._ Such a small choice, a miniscule tipping of the scales, to merit such consequence.

His friend unfolds, blue eyes glinting, unshed anguish sparkling in their corners. "You _what?"_

Jabiim: mud, filth, torrential rain. Crushed bodies coated in filth, the monstrous walkers looming darkly in the perpetual gloom, the barbaric warlords….Jedi master though he may be, It is not impossible for him to make a _tactical misstep._ The campaign was nightmarish, casualties mounting to obscene proportions…. Another Geonosis in the making.

"I took the risk. It was my command error. You are not to be blamed."

But Anakin is not so easily diverted from his pain. "If I had been there sooner, I would have found you. Before _she_ did."

"Perhaps. She was…. waiting for me." It was _personal,_ focused, a trap laid for him painstakingly, with infinite care. Maul had wanted him, too – and for the same reason. He has been _Chosen_ by the Dark perhaps since before his birth, the selected victim for this, their occult Trial of skill. The acolyte which can _truly break_ him, which can shatter his humble vessel upon a cruel anvil, will assume the crown and mantle, the title _Darth._

Maul attempted the same, and later fell to his blade.. . Has Ventress succeeded where her predecessor failed?

Anakin's eyes are cold arctic flame. "It would have been different had I been there."

He shakes his head. _No. Yes. It might have been different… but would it have been better?_ "It was the Will of the Force, Anakin. That must simply be accepted."

But that has never been Anakin's specialty, has it?

The dark-haired Knight lights the candle, snapping his fingers above the wick, drawing fire out of thin air and the Force. "I'm here now," he states, grimly.

And in that promise, that unadorned pledge of loyalty, there is a wellspring of strength.

It is time. The moment cannot be deferred any longer; his reluctance, his _shame_ to be seen so _vulnerable-_ these too must be accepted and released.

He slides to his knees opposite Anakin, their hands grasping each other's wrists, a circle complete: master and padawan melding into equals,, generals, Knights of the Order, comrades, friends, orphans and heroes, servants and leaders, blades of Light raised against encroaching dusk. _Brothers,_ those who were Chosen by cruel fate, by mysterious providence, by the Will of the inscrutable Force.

They will descend into captivity one last time…. And finish the fight.


	22. Chapter 22

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XXII**

Anakin's connection to the Force is primal, inexorable; to be linked to him in meditation is almost worse than being at the mercy of his piloting. The vision opens, not gently: they plunge into fetid shadow , a sickening swoop from _here_ and _now_ into _then_ and _there,_ a reckless descent into the bowels of recollection, driven by their yoked wills and … perhaps… a burning curiosity.

 _How did you escape, Master?_

 _I don't know…._

 _But there must be a way out. There must be an exit from the doorless, sealed tomb of despair._

 _Ventress returns,mincing across the stained flagstones with a peculiar, exotic grace. Somehow, enthralled as he is, her predatory movement appears dance-like, the curdling Dark exuding from her very pores a seductive scent. The malice glinting in her slanted eyes is tantalizing, the knife's edge of beauty. He trembles, awed at the inversion of his certainties, at the madness this implies – he has fallen through a black hole into some mirror realm, some surreal fantasy kingdom. But which is real? To which does he belong?_

 _The lightsaber's hilt presses close beneath his sternum again, promising instant annihiliation._

" _Shall I? Ask nicely, and you can escape forever. The Dark is hungry."_

 _He wants it… or is that the mask? What does he want? Does he so much as possess a will any longer?_

" _Don't listen to her, General!" a once-familiar voice shouts._

 _The exhortation is followed by sickening thuds, the collision of flesh and hard implement, the panting wet grunts of breath laced by blood._

 _He begs her to stop, but his pleas come forth as encouragement, as peals of maniacal laughter._

 _No….no…. no…._

 _A thought, a glimmer of madness beyond madness: what if Alpha could escape? Not himself, but another?_

 _For a split second, the mask's clamping vise upon his soul slackens. If so much as_ one _of them could walk free of this hell, could ascend back to the light and life above, then that would be a victory. It need not be him. It could be Alpha._

 _Ventress seethes, her fingers closing round his neck, the Force crushing his windpipe. "Don't even think it," she warns. "I can see_ all _of you, Obi-Wan. Every corner, every secret. So much as daydream about your clone escaping, and I will flay him alive and feed his filthy skin to you."_

 _He hangs limp in his bonds, her malevolence thrilling in his veins like first love, like exquisite music. Pleasure and pain, horror and attraction, these are blurred into an amorphous poison, a drug and medicine more potent than any he has ever touched._

" _No… please."_

 _Or did he say_ yes?

"You can do this, Master. Fight it. Defeat it." That is Anakin's solar presence, outside place and time; there is anger in the admonition, and fierce hope, encouragement and command. He chokes and moans, and fights harder. There must be a way out.

 _Ventress leaves, and he sags, exhausted beyond reckoning, hurt so many, many ways, so many, many places… already claimed by the Dark, holding to life by a thread of sheer obstinacy. He has lost the battle, his face is ground into the mire, his light is extinguished, and yet he cannot surrender._

" _Alpha," he groans. Anything not to think of the vacuous and gaping wound that was once his spirit._

" _I'm here, sir," the clone wheezes, painfully._

 _Release and accept. Release and accept. There will be no homecoming for him when he expires, but his last moments can at least be those of a Jedi._

 _The mask is suffocating him; his breath feels slippery, hot, claws scrabbling inside his lungs. He starts to slip… consciousness loosening, expanding into velvet night, into the blanket of Dark – here, where there can only be One, a solitary will bent on destruction, where there are no secrets, no sanctuary, no corner of the soul which is a garden enclosed…. Where Ventress and he are One…_

 _One… in the Dark…._

 _The door opens._

 _His heart leaps, Light spurting like blood, like foam spattered against unyielding rock. The way out._

 _Ventress knows all of him: his every secret, every hidden alcove. And so, he knows her. There is no sanctuary or armor within the Dark's omnipresent glaring hatred._

 _He reaches out, through the obliterating, leveling and unifying Dark, into the sequestered labyrinth of her soul. And there are secrets there. There is love, festering into hate; there is obedience, rotting into domination; there is hope starving upon the vine, shrinking to resentment, to vengeance. There is a withered tree in her ruined garden, a thing that once bore flowers of Light._

 _Ventress is a child of Light – half-aborted, orphaned, mutilated and enslaved… but all the same… she was once…._

 _His heart breaks, in pity._

 _And the Mask recoils from him as though burned, its impalpable fingers ripping loose from his psyche, roots abruptly torn free, the agony of that sundering wringing out more tears and a breathless scream –_

 _And then it is over._

 _The Light thunders against him, into him – he is too broken to contain it, his levees smashed and lying in disarray. The tidal wave overtakes him, and he drowns in it, the power flooding wild and uncontrolled. His shackles apart, Alpha's chains explode into clattering links, the Mask seems to howl like a thing alive as he_ tears it off, _casts it into the void, away from his convulsing body. He falls on his face, unable to stand, the Light still erupting over its dams, singing a deafening chorus, squeezing breath into his laboring lungs, fleet lightning crumbling the confines of this place, the Force penetrating and binding, vivifying, illumining._

 _His 'saber. He opens a shaking hand, and the hilt flies into his grasp, crystal within resounding within, a chime sweet-sharp, clarion pure._

" _General Kenobi, sir. Easy." Alpha's cracked, unbelieveing voice in his ear; a pair of arms around his chest, heaving him upright._

"Master! Easy, Master!"

Anakin's voice, Anakin's arms…. They will escape. They have escaped. It is over, it is finished.

They are in his quarters, in the Jedi Temple, alone, a single still candle-flame and a soft carpet of white blossoms the only witnesses to this tipping-point, this fulcrum upon which the galaxy turns from abysmal night back into day.

"I've got you. It's all right."

He feels the young Jedi's hands tighten about his forearms, a supportive and precautionary grip. His glacial blue eyes are hard, diamond bright, his brow furrowed with a peculiar soft emotion. Obi-Wan dredges up a victorious grin – for they have done it, they have escaped – and wonders if the roaring in his ears is the ocean or the Force itself.

"Welcome home," the young Jedi smiles, and then abruptly shifts his weight, the whole room tilting on its axis with him. "Whoa – easy there…. "

Somebody is banging _murderously_ upon the door…. The world is a blur, a spinning skein of Light.. the Force is rising, rising….

"Oh boy, are we in hot _poodoo,"_ Anakin mutters in his ear, a half-second before he finally surrenders.


	23. Chapter 23

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XXIII**

"Hot poodoo" is roughly equivalent in Anakin's lexicon to Obi-Wan's idiosyncratic use of "situation." The young Jedi prefers gritty metaphor as his primary descriptive mode, while his more experienced counterpart has an ingrained penchant for understatement. But all differences of nomenclature apart, they both recognize this present…. situation…. as one ranking high among those exploits which have merited them infamy within the Temple community itself.

Vokara Che has explicitly banned both Qui-Gon and Anakin from the healers' ward, a prohibition enforced by no less than a full Conciliar decree; as for her patient, he has been incarcerated with no hope of parole until such time as the stern Twi'Lek deems his reformation complete. Master Yoda has figuratively rapped the kneecaps of all three generations in this unorthodox teaching line, visiting them each in turn and delivering his judgment upon their collective misadventure in no uncertain terms. And Bant- well….. Bant has been insufferable.

And she is enjoying every minute of it.

It is difficult to begrudge her what small pleasure she derives from her temporary position of despot; Obi-Wan is inclined to be indulgent. And besides, the trained diplomat within him knows that it is his turn to make concessions at the bargaining table. He has _won_ his battle, carried the day, exorcised the ghosts and demons of captivity; he can afford to be patient and meek for the sake of harmony, for the greater good.

He is a veritable model of humility. He eats what is given him, without complaint. He sleeps when he is told to do so, he allows incessant insults to his dignity and privacy without a word of objection, he stoically endures Cin Drallig's pummeling and punishing version of "therapy," he demurely attends to Master Che's every lecture and admonition. They could bring the _younglings_ in here to witness his _flawless_ example of proper Jedi comportment.

"See? You _can_ be cooperative, when you put your mind to it, Obi."

Well. That depends on one's point of view. He _can_ be cooperative, a paragon of acquiescence, but it would not be true to say that he has put his _mind to it._ His mind has been far, far away – partly bathed in the euphoria of victory… and perhaps also in the mild sedative they are using to _ensure_ his continued affability – but mostly centered upon its own task. He is busy gestating the seeds of a novel and profound wisdom. He has looked the Dark full in its face, and what he has beheld there is … unexpected.

Because there is no redemption from the Pit. This is the teaching, and it has stood for a thousand generations.

And yet…. If Master Yoda had but a glimmering of the audacity slowly, inexorably sending down roots into his deepest core, if Master Seva himself could but hear the madness he has dared to whisper to himself here, on the far shore of his Trial, what might they say?

He finally understands the all-consuming passion, the _need_ which drove his own former master to seek out the Whills, to seek illumination past the far borders of tradition, to kneel at the feet of any teacher which could speak of the Light's most veiled secrets, the unspeakable, the unimaginable, that which defies reason and authority, experience and instinct. The ordeal has bequeathed him not only the bare fact of survival, of triumph; it has also given birth to his own unanswered question, his own _quest._

He cherishes it as the foundation of _hope,_ for this war-torn galaxy. Others might call it mere _obsession._

In either case, his preoccupation serves to collapse sluggish time, days and weeks into the coterminal extremes of a hyperspace jump. Before he knows it, Vokara Che has issued him a pardon and reprieve; he sits properly shod, clothed, and cloaked before her, listening to his burdensomely convoluted discharge instructions.

"Yes, Master. Yes, Master. Yes. Of course. I understand. Yes, Master…"

Qui-Gon drilled this routine into his obstinate head decades ago – and though he has been more often upon the receiving end in recent memory, he is pleased to know that the words still trip off his tongue with effortless grace.

The senior healer squints suspiciously, his dulcet tones falling upon ears still tuned for the slightest hint of rebellion.

"And when I say _light duty,_ Master Kenobi, I do not mean – "

He raises one hand. "You have my word."

The elegant Twi"lek purses her lips dubiously, but she cannot impugn his honor by expressing open disbelief. "Very well. I shall see you in say, a week's time, then?"

"As you wish." He bows deeply – for he _does_ owe a great debt to her skill and devotion, all else aside.

It is possible that her amber eyes convey something softer in farewell, but he is not so arrogant as to suppose Master Che will _miss_ his presence here.

Bant is laying in ambush for him just outside the Halls; there is no escaping her fierce embrace.

He rests his chin atop the petite Mon Cal's head, unabashedly enjoying her effusion of _joy._ Her arms wrap tighter about his ribs, still pathetically prominent. It will take a careful diet and some _hard_ training to fully recover his physical strength. He is rather looking forward to the latter…. though not the humiliating interlude during which Anakin will be able to _school_ him in the dojo. The notion does not sting his pride so badly as it once might have; he is infused with new insight, new _purpose._

Bant peers up at him, globular eyes widening. "Obi… you feel…. "- she colors slightly, salmon skin dusking to purplish – "well, _stronger."_

It is not him; it is the Force she feels. But yes – it is strangely _stronger_ now, is it not?

He takes a half-pace backward, hand formally resting atop his 'saber pommel.

"Thank you, Bant, for all your care." Another deep bow.

"It was my pleasure and my honor," she replies. Mischief flickers between them. "…Gundark."

He strides through the lower level concourses, beneath towering arches, graceful vaults. It is so _achingly_ good to be home.. and, he reflects, savoring the steady slap of 'saber pommel against his thigh, the familiar whisper of cloak hem at his heels, _freedom_ suits him.

The Archives are his first destination. Madame Nu is almost _demonstrative_ in her greeting.

"Master Kenobi! It is good to see you back in Temple, and much recovered."

"The Force was with me."

The Archivist's long cassocks skim over polished marble as they pace between the staring busts of the Lost. "And may I be of assistance to you this morning?"

She has _nearly_ forgiven him for the Kamino scandal…. Or entirely, it would seem. Perhaps his penance at Ventress' hands was sufficient to expurgate the guilt of having accused Jocasta's inviolable records of _incompleteness._

"Yes." A corner of his mouth quirks at the stray thought before he wrestles it back into submission. "… I need all available information about Jedi Master Ky Narec."

"Ky Narec," Madame Nu murmurs curiously , leading the way to a data terminal. "Hm…. Let us see what we can do."


	24. Chapter 24

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XXIV**

"All right, _Snips,_ let's see what you've got."

The sassy Togruta flashes him one of her wolf-child grins, the still burgeoning curve of her montrals vaguely suggestive of an aggressive bull-nerf, the bold white slashes upon cheekbones and chin the war-paint of a predatory felix. She has a _shoto_ blade in her left hand, reverse-gripped and angled dramatically behind her back, classic defensive-one opening position for duel blade fighting, "folded wings." Anoon Bondara is fairly conservative in his _kata,_ a stickler for form.

Anakin has to admit to a small pang of relief; there is one _jar kai_ duelist he does not relish facing off against, and that is Obi-Wan, whose preferred ready-stance in this obscure style is "double scorpion" or else "sleeping draigon," and who _seldom if ever_ employs a reverse grip. Ahsoka's more orthodox approach signals a predictable repertoire of attacks and blocks. He can handle this.

"Begin," he orders, his own weapon's hilt still slack in his gloved right hand.

His eager padawan throws herself into the attack with all the reckless confidence of extreme youth. He feints, ducks, and flows between her attacks, igniting his own blade at the last instant and catching her whirlwind double decapitating stroke in a neat bind behind his back.

"Ha," he snorts, a focused Force-shove punching her solidly in the gut and sending her tumbling off-balance onto her backside a few paces away. He turns, raising both brows because _his_ reckless youthful confidence is fully _justified_. Ahsoka sulks, sprawling upon the mat with frustration shining in wide blue eyes.

She is crestfallen, but leaps back to her feet and makes him the requisite bow. "Thank you for the lesson," she mutters.

Anakin flicks his own smile upward at the two cloaked figures idly watching this contest from the observation balcony. Humiliation of one's apprentice in the dojo is among the few Jedi traditions he can heartily embrace, now that he is on the fun end of it. "You did well," he declares, in his most patronizing voice. "But you forget that doubling your weapons does not double your skill."

"Yes, Master," his chastised opponent intones.

"Tell you what, Snips. I'll give you more of a chance – I'll fight blindfolded. I still want to see what you've learned. Jar kai could serve you well on the battle field."

Because one thing is certain – they _will_ be returning to the battlefield. One thing has been made clear to him in this period of ordeal, of devastating loss narrowly circumvented. The war, and all it stands for, is more than the Republic's battle, more than a duty shouldered sometimes reluctantly by the Order. The _war_ is personal. Ventress made it personal – she, and whatever master she serves. They embody Darkness, and the front line of their assault is not located in the diffuse cloud of campaigns and battles raging in the Rims and the Core regions. The CIS and the Republic tear each other to shreds, clones and droids fall in the millions, planets are wasted, star fleets reduced to roaring conflagrations, streams of refugees flit like locust swarms from one beleaguered system to another… but none of this is the _true_ conflict.

That is a personal struggle, between principalities and powers, the Sith and …. _himself._

He is the one born to bring Balance. And he finally understands what this means. The impossible, harrowing task set before him, the burden which has overshadowed most his childhood, his youth – the mandate to bring balance to the Force itself – has in the past days collapsed upon itself like a dead star, a new thing defined by a supernova of _resolve_ and a black hole, a singularity, _of aim._ He does not grapple with the universal and impalpable Force ; he strives against the mysterious unknown One, the lord of the Sith, Darkness incarnate.

Ventress tried to tip the balance into night, Dark striking at Light. She nearly _destroyed_ Anakin's beloved Master.

And so, he shall find and _destroy_ hers.

And when at last he has achieved that one, that _essential_ task, the galaxy will know peace.

Ahsoka's offensive is at once acrobatic and ferocious, a dervish-dance of spinning blades and tightly controlled motion – but she may as well be a sand-storm crashing against the Jundland's immemorial rock. Not one strike lands, the cacophony and brilliance of her attack wasted upon its intended target.

She slows to a halt, astonished and a trifle _peeved._ "…. _Skyguy_!" she complains , glowing blades hissing ruefully back into their hilts.

He shoves the blindfold up, and stares down at his panting, disappointed protégé. "Look, Ahsoka – the problem is in your _mindset._ You're treating your blades like one thing." As though she were fighting with a staff, or a double bladed laser-pike. "Jar kai is about being two places at once. Like being your own tandem dueling partner. Your weapons work for the same aim, but they move _independently,_ as though they had separate minds."

Peripherally, he can see one of the cowled observers nod his head, in mute agreement.

The slender Togruta's shoulders slump. She has been working on this for _weeks,_ hoping to impress him. "If you're so accomplished, Master, maybe you should _show_ me." Her small chin juts resentfully.

He talies up the disrespect on her already lengthy account. They will settle the tab later; for now, she is going to get what she wants. "Fine. Give me your _shoto_ and stand back."

Ahsoka capitulates, handing over her shorter weapon with a pronounced moue and taking up morose position in the far corner while Anakin activates a half-dozen remotes. The moment his 'sabers blaze into life, thedroids will simultaneously open fire . "Watch and learn, _young one."_

This is _jar kai,_ the forked path, the way of two-hands. His blades have but one aim – to bring down his surrounding foes – but they carve out separate searing paths through the static-crackling air. The sabers' deep vibrating tones hum in unison, slightly discordant, rhythms mismatched, sometimes crossing sometimes sweeping far apart, as though he is not one man but two at once.

The Sith must be broken, must be destroyed. But there are two _ways,_ two hands…. A forked path in destiny, or a high and a low road leading to the same distant goal . He was _there,_ in deep meditation with Obi-Wan, in Ventress' dungeon, in the throes of torment. He _has seen_ what merciful salvation was provided, what triumph _pity_ and _compassion_ have claimed. He has seen that breathless moment in which _opposition_ ceased, in which surrender and renunciation became the truest blades of Light, the crystals of the Living Force, the unraveling of hatred's crushing knot.

He _knows_ what Obi-Wan thinks, he _sees_ It, he champions it, the lightsaber of the Jedi in his right hand, the pure and blazing emblem of wisdom.

But in his left he wields _doubt,_ reverse-gripped, his _shoto_ blade. And it is a powerful weapon, too. For compassion may be enough to save the damned soul, it may burst shackles and open doors, but can it _stop_ evil from spreading outward like a flood? Can it stem the tide? Can it make restitution for what has already been wrought upon the bodies of the innocent? Compassion itself still suffers, and will suffer always – it will know the undertow of grief, the bitterness of loss, the scars of memory. Freedom such as this comes at a price; ask Obi-Wan, ask _Shmi -_ for was it not compassion that betrayed her _?_ She took pity upon the Tuskens in their time of illness, in the hour of their need, and that pity killed her in the end. Her reward for generosity was a slow death.

There is another way, the low road, that which wends through the valley of shadows. There may be only one who dares to tread it - but he will not falter for lack of allies. Let his right hand fight _clean,_ true to form, to tradition, to all that has gone before. But he is not merely a child of tradition. He is also the son of prophecy; he will strike also with his left hand, and burn out heart of Darkness.

His is a forked path, a double-way, a destiny with two hands. He is Compassion…. And he is Vengeance.

He is both. He is the Chosen One.

The one who will bring Balance.


	25. Chapter 25

**Homecoming**

* * *

 **XXV**

Obi-Wan watches the skillful demonstration below with critical eye; he leans forward, weight resting lightly against the balcony rail, expression intent, eyes gleaming with both appreciation and an expert's reflexive _assessment._ He looks well; though obviously underfed, there is color in his complexion, and fastidiousness to his grooming that bespeaks rapidly returning _health._ And there can be no doubt that his Force signature is particularly scintillating.

Qui-Gon is content, and doubly content for this morning's leisure, which allows him to be here in company with his former padawan, merely resting in the moment and enjoying the antics of the younger generation below. It is odd to _conceive_ of the man beside him as a member of the elders' circle…. But Jabiim and its aftermath have changed much. A threshold has been crossed.

"You've taught him well," the tall master offers, by way of conversation. Anakin's performance accelerates into a dizzying maelstrom, never missing a beat, a perfection so acute it wavers on the edge of mania.

"Perhaps too well," Obi-Wan snorts. "I'm not sure I can _best_ him anymore."

"Get used to it," the senior Jedi advises.

They smile, and are silent, comfortable in their role as audience.

"The younglings do not require your _inspiration_ today?" Obi-Wan asks, when Ahsoka and her mentor pause to reset the remote training droids.

"A field trip to the legislative district…. I am growing too old for that sort of thing."

Obi-Wan's brows rise, but he makes no comment. Maturity has mellowed his trenchant wit to a dry undertone.

"Speaking of younglings, and teaching…" Qui-Gon ventures.

"No."

The stubborn streak remains firmly ingrained; _deepened_ perhaps by tides of war and trials of spirit. But Qui-Gon is accustomed to pleading the unpopular cause. "It is the _duty_ of every master without a current apprentice to pass on the Order's wisdom. Now more than ever." Their numbers have dwindled; the Jedi will be all but decimated by the end of this conflict, if it continues to rage unchecked. "And there are those among the initiates who deserve the finest guidance."

Obi-Wan's hands tighten about the balcony rail. "You _know_ I cannot," he growls.

The topic is forbidden, the exchange over.

The tall man cedes defeat for the time being. He will not imperil their present harmony. "The Council report went well?"

His companion relaxes, visibly, grateful for the shift in focus. "Yes, indeed. It also occupied the greater part of yesterday. I think even Mace was fidgeting in his seat by the time we were finished."

An amusing image. Interminable Council debriefings are something Qui-Gon will never miss.

Obi-Wan's brows quirk together. He draws in a centering breath. "And…. I spoke at length with Master Yoda afterward. We had tea."

There is a kind of bewilderment in the younger Jedi's voice, a child's wonder at the utterly novel, the unexpected.

"He had insight to offer you?"

A blink, a frown, a soundless breath of astonishment or laughter. "No…well, yes… but he also had a question. An… invitation."

The Force whispers in Qui-Gon's ear, rumor carried on an infallible wind. It is his turn to be taken aback. And yet… why should he be? He saw this coming…. _Years_ ago. More than a decade ago. Probably from the beginning.

Obi-Wan runs a hand through his short hair and looks away. "I accepted, Qui-Gon. "

So. The circle is complete, as it was always destined to be. And he, Qui-Gon, will taste a new kind of humility. It is the Will of the Force. It must be accepted. He almost regrets his life-long history of dispute with the Jedi high Council. Almost.

Humor polishes the edges of Obi-Wan's next words to an ironic sheen. "I will strive to honor your teachings in this new office as in any other, Master. _Discipline_ is essential to the Jedi way, would you not agree?"

"Incorrigible _brat,"_ the Order's resident maverick growls, already dreading the next occasion he appears before the Council. He cannot shake the intuitive feeling that the Force itself is chuckling at his expense.

As though the impish grooves accenting his companion's smirk are not provocation enough.

In the salle below, Ahsoka and Anakin stand back-to-back, fending off the concerted attack of a full dozen robotic foes. Red stun bolts ricochet wildly off ceiling and walls. The observers take a precautionary step backward, then retire into the hall beyond by unspoken consent.

The mood shifts from banter into solemnity as they walk, a burbling rivulet widening gradually to the Force's thundering cataract.

"…Master."

"Yes."

Their peregrination has carried them to one of the connecting mezzanines. They halt beneath Chakora Seva's bronzium memorial.

Obi-Wan looks inward for a long moment, then upward at Qui-Gon. Light shafting from the overhead skylight picks out the first fine lines around his eyes, the faint threads of early silver in his beard, at his temples. "…Do you believe that one who has Turned may still be brought back to the Light?"

It is shocking to hear such heresy issue from this quarter, even as a hypothetical. "What does Master Yoda say?" For it is clear that Obi-Wan has posed this query before.

"He says that once we embrace the Dark Side, it will dominate our destiny forever."

Qui-Gon inclines his head. "You have your answer, then."

But his former student – his _dyed in the blood_ traditionalist padawan, his friend, his fellow Jedi, a man who has ripped out his own heart more than once in service and fealty to the Code – this seeming stranger gently shakes his head.

The tall man breathes out. Yes, indeed, a threshold has been crossed and there can be no turning back. "If you do not have your answer, then you must seek it for yourself," he admonishes.

Obi-Wan nods, a familiar glimmering in his eyes, the reflected corona of the winged flame. "I shall," he promises.

Qui-Gon does not need to be told what form this search, this _pilgrimage,_ will take – nor to whom the steps of that journey will lead. Asaaj Ventress in her fury and lust for power thought merely of success or failure, whether or not Light could be Turned to despair and ruin. Neither she nor her master, perhaps, have ever dreamed that their enemy would reply to temptation not with contempt but with a counterattack, the inverted image of seduction. Such impossibles are too obvious, too lowly for great ones to perceive. Such wise folly as this is clear only to the wonderful mind of a child… or a true _master._

 _What if you could Fall them back?_

He smiles, and folds his hands into opposite sleeves, keeping pace beside a man who never ceases to amaze him.

And they walk on, into the Temple's heart, deep into the Force's winding mansions, which are their only and truest home.

FINIS


End file.
